Desiderium
by Laora
Summary: At the time, stealing one of Radagast's potions seemed like a brilliant idea. Now, staring down an elf, two men, and four hobbits...Fíli and Kíli aren't so sure.
1. I

_Because seriously, how has this not been done yet?!_

_I'm disregarding DOS entirely here, as I planned and wrote most of it before that came out. I assumed Radagast would meet up with the Company before he and Gandalf ran off...let's just roll with it, yes? :D_

_Updates should be constant every week—I'm shooting for Mondays—because this is, for the most part, pre-written. Thank you so much for checking this out—I really hope you enjoy it :)_

* * *

**desiderium: **an ardent longing, as for something lost

—-—

**I.**

Near the beginning, Kíli is quite proud of himself for coming up with this scheme in the first place, even if it doesn't quite go as he thought it would.

(Later on, of course, he regrets ever dragging the both of them into this mess.)

They left Beorn's halls a few days ago, have been traveling on borrowed ponies through relative safety...and this evening, they finally arrive on the outskirts of Mirkwood. Thorin calls for them to set up camp, and they've just about finished when a terrifyingly familiar, rabbit-drawn sleigh bursts from the nearby trees.

Radagast the Brown: Gandalf's occasionally reliable, arguably insane friend with (Kíli is fairly certain) bird excrement in his hair.

_Do you have to be crazy to be a wizard?_ Kíli wonders vaguely as he seats himself on an empty patch of ground. Gandalf certainly has his moments, and if someone willingly gives himself the title "the Grey" or "the Brown" or "the White" (Gandalf claims Saruman is an incredibly powerful wizard, but Kíli has his doubts), surely there must be a few screws loose up there.

Radagast is cheerful enough, though, so Kíli has no concerns when Thorin allows him into their camp. The wizard offers them some sort of green food (which only Bilbo and Bifur accept) before sitting down with Gandalf, discussing Mahal-knows-what about wherever they're running off to.

Kíli's still miffed about that, to be honest. Gandalf promised to help them on their quest, but now he's abandoning them halfway through...what kind of wizard guide _is _he?

Thorin looks equally unimpressed, across the fire. Kíli resists the urge to laugh at the sour look on his face.

"Where do you think they're going, anyway?" Fíli asks, sitting down next to him and offering a bowl of stew. Kíli accepts it gratefully, sniffing at it briefly before digging in. "This is probably the most dangerous part of the quest, aside from the dragon—_how_ could he have decided that this is a good idea?"

Kíli only shrugs, gazing contemplatively across the clearing at the wizards as they continue their quiet discussion. Radagast seems to be emptying his many pockets onto a nearby fallen log; various scraps of parchment mix with vials of strange potions and what look like small animal droppings before he apparently finds what he's looking for. Soon enough, everything seems to be back in his pockets, and he wanders off on slightly unsteady legs to find his rabbits something to eat.

Strange fellow...but Kíli figures that if Gandalf approves of him, he can't be all that bad. The wizard was the one who all but forced Bilbo onto them, after all...and the hobbit's been more than helpful over the course of the quest, even if they all had their doubts.

Gandalf soon disappears into the foliage as well, humming to himself and smoking his pipe. Kíli allows his eyes to sweep over the campsite once more, ready to dig back into his soup wholeheartedly—

When he happens to notice something bright and shining over on the log where the wizards were sitting.

He knows it's a bad idea. He _knows_ that Thorin is always yelling at him for being too rash and getting himself into danger before fully realizing the consequences. He _knows_ that more than a few of his mother's grey hairs are caused by _his_ shenanigans, rather than Fíli's...but he can't help himself. After all, Radagast is a good guy, right? None of the things he carries around could possibly be dangerous.

There's no harm in taking a look.

On the pretense of bringing his bowl to the nearby stream to clean it, he straightens, stretches languidly, and makes his way over to the log. And with only one quick, furtive glance to make sure the others aren't watching, he snatches up the object—a vial—before tucking it safely into a pocket, continuing toward the stream as if nothing happened.

When he returns, it seems that he's succeeded; Radagast, certainly, doesn't notice that anything has gone missing as he feeds what look like enormous stalks of grass to his rabbits. Gandalf is surveying the Company, but he does that often, and Kíli does not worry himself over it. Fíli gives him a strange look (because really, it's practically impossible to hide anything from his older brother), but he resolves not to tell him anything until later, when nobody will overhear.

_He wants to drink it._ Why not, after all? It'd be stupid to steal a strange potion from a powerful—albeit slightly unstable—wizard and then do nothing with it. Maybe it'll turn him invisible. Or invincible! Or make him stronger or faster or give him better eyes—

(_Or maybe_, whispers a tiny, lighthearted voice that sounds suspiciously like Fíli, _it'll make your beard grow faster—_)

Kíli growls and elbows his brother lightly. Fíli gives him an odd look, because he hasn't actually said anything...but Kíli only grins sheepishly at him before returning to his pipe.

His anticipation grows steadily as night falls; eventually, the others all start heading to their bedrolls, for Thorin has promised them an early start tomorrow. Fíli lies down for the night a small distance away from the others, and Kíli follows quickly. Clearly, Fíli realizes he has something to tell him, if they're sleeping so far from the fire...and the faster he explains, the faster they can drink it and find out what it does.

"So what is it?" Fíli asks in a low tone once Kíli has settled in, raising his eyebrows as he glances around the camp, making sure no one is listening. "How much trouble will we be in once Thorin finds out?"

Kíli grins and pulls the flask from his pocket, holding it out to his brother. It's of average size, perhaps the length of his hand, and his fingers are already itching to uncork it and down half the contents. "Radagast left it on that log earlier. We should drink it, see what happens."

Fíli's eyebrows rise even higher as he accepts the potion, inspecting it carefully. "So we'll be in a _lot_ of trouble," he says eventually, a smirk threatening to form on his lips. "If anyone asks, this is entirely your fault."

"Of course. When we've got fantastic superpowers, _I'll_ be the one to thank!" Kíli grins, snatching the flask back from his brother and popping the cork off, eying the contents critically before swigging half of them. It burns down his throat, but there's nothing inherently terrible about the taste. "Right then, your turn."

Fíli grins back and grabs the vial, downing the rest of it before tucking it into a pocket. "Well, let's hope this doesn't make our heads explode or paralyze us or do anything else dangerous. Thorin will murder us. And then Mother will resurrect us, and kill us _again _when she finds out."

"Radagast is a _good guy,_" Kíli stresses, even as a wave of exhaustion flows through him from nowhere, wiping out the excitement he was feeling only moments ago. "He wouldn't carry anything dangerous around with him, don't be stupid."

"Mm," Fíli says, though his eyes are suddenly half-lidded as well. "Well, I guess we'll find out when we wake up?"

"Sounds good..."

.

.

Waking up, as it turns out, is a much more laborious task than Kíli ever remembers it being.

The sunlight, which should be streaming from the east, over the enormous trees of Mirkwood, is beating down on them as if in midday...but the weather is much chillier than Kíli would expect for early autumn. And, he realizes as he becomes more aware of his surroundings, he is no longer curled up inside a bedroll, and the air is not filled with the comforting sounds of the Company.

There are only his brother's soft snores to pierce the silence, and this may be more terrifying than anything else.

He opens his eyes as quickly as he can, trying to gauge the danger like he's been taught. There doesn't seem to be any threats in their immediate vicinity, because he knows orcs would never be this quiet...but there is definitely nobody here but him and Fíli.

And this clearing, surrounded on all sides by tall, cheerful evergreens, is _definitely_ not where they fell asleep on the edges of Mirkwood.

He is alert and standing in an instant, drawing his sword in one fluid movement _(at least his weapons are still with him)_ and glancing around, taking stock of his surroundings. The air is definitely chillier than it should be, and the sun's position is not that of early morning, but he does not know which way is east to guess at the exact time of day. There are mountains not far from their position, but they are utterly unfamiliar to him... After another careful inspection of the trees to ensure that they are well and truly alone, he turns to his brother, not daring to put away his sword as he attempts to shake Fíli awake.

At least they are here together...but where is _here?_

Fíli wakes much like he did, slowly and with much grumbling...but once he realizes the strangeness of the situation, he is on his feet as well, swords drawn and eyes taking in their surroundings.

"Where are we?" he asks Kíli, his voice sharp (clearly to cover the terror, but there's no fooling Kíli when he's been reading his brother for almost eighty years) as he takes in the unfamiliar trees. "Where are Thorin and the others?"

Kíli can only shrug helplessly, fear coursing through him as he realizes exactly how dire their situation is. They're separated from the rest of the Company, in a strange place, with no idea of how they got there or how they can get back—

"Let's try and get out of the trees," he suggests, peering at the edges of the clearing before gesturing to the trees that look the thinnest. "Figure out where we are. Or at least find someone who can tell us..."

Fíli grunts—really, they don't have any other options—and heads in that direction, jerking his head to tell Kíli to draw his bow rather than his sword.

_Long-range, in case we hear someone coming. We'll need the advantage._ Kíli can see the wisdom in that.

The forest, though, seems much larger than they originally thought, because they spend several hours wandering in that general direction before the sun begins to sink in the sky. They speak little, ears always attentive to the sounds of the forest around them. They could truly be _anywhere,_ because the landscape is utterly unfamiliar to both of them. They've been traveling north, apparently, because the sun is now on their left; but this does little to ease their worries.

All Kíli can think is that Thorin is going to _kill_ them once they find their way back.

The trees are not especially thick, but they are persistent, and Kíli's starting to feel jumpy as the shadows gradually grow longer. It's not yet dark, but it will be soon enough; if they don't find somewhere to bunk down for the night, try to figure out what to do—

"Come no closer, friends."

The light voice comes from the treetops several yards ahead; Kíli whips his bow up toward his best guess of its origin, squinting through the thick pine needles and branches to try and find the speaker. There's a slight rustle of cloth—the person likely positioning his own ranged weapon—before he speaks again:

"What is your business here?"

_Business? _Does someone watch over this place? A shiver goes down Kíli's spine as he remembers the tales of the talking trees, the great creatures who make the forest come alive. If they've awoken in those lands, they have no chance of fighting their way out; his mind speeds through the possibilities, the outcomes (mostly gruesome) of such a blunder—

"Answer me, or I will be forced to consider you hostile," the voice has turned harder, now, and Kíli adjusts his aim minutely as he gets a better gauge on where he is. He has no idea what to say in response, but Fíli steps forward slightly, not relaxing his defensive stance as he calls back—

"We would know to whom we are speaking."

His voice is harsh, and though Kíli can hear the well-masked tremor behind the words, he can also hear the command, the steel that makes others listen when Thorin speaks. _Crown prince indeed_. Lesser creatures have cowered before such a voice, and though Fíli is still young, he carries an aura of authority that simply makes people _obey._

But there is only a huff of laughter in response, a few shaken branches—and then there is an elf with long blond hair, not fifteen feet away, his bow trained on Fíli.

Kíli curses and tightens his grip on his own weapon, adjusting his aim. Even if they outnumber him, an elf is an elf, and Kíli knows they are formidable fighters, even on their worst days—

"I do not want any trouble, Master Dwarves. Simply state your business and be on your way."

Kíli bares his teeth and only more assuredly places his feet, scanning the forest behind the elf for reinforcements. He dares not turn his head for even a moment to check the trees on either side, not when his brother is in such danger...

The elf does not look angered, though; if anything, he seems almost confused as he seems to study both of them. Fíli shifts, uncomfortable under the scrutiny but doing his best to hide it, and replies, "We are only wandering. If we have trespassed on the elves' land, we did not know it. Show us the way out, and we will bother you no longer."

A request for direction, disguised so as not to show weakness. Kíli is rather impressed by his brother's choice of words. (He shouldn't be, in all honesty. Fíli always excelled during Balin's diplomacy lessons.)

(Kíli...not so much.)

Instead of answering immediately, though, the elf only squints at them, the confusion on his face evident as he looks them up and down again. "You are not in elven territory, I can assure you. We are not far from Moria; is that where you hail from? It—"

_"Moria?_" The word is out of Kíli's mouth before he can stop himself, the incredulity obvious in his voice. Despite everything Thorin would have them believe, Kíli knows that elves are not stupid, knows that they follow nearly everything that happens in Middle Earth. So, why would this one—"Why would you think we're from that gods-forsaken place?"

The elf's frown deepens at that, and Kíli sees his brother shift slightly out of the corner of his eye. Clearly, there is something strange going on here—because nobody seems to be getting any of the answers they want or expect—but Kíli does not know what...

Suddenly, several more figures burst from the trees behind the elf, weapons drawn; Kíli swears again, doing his best to size up this new threat as they take positions. There are two more tall creatures—men, he thinks: one with dark hair, who strides quickly to stand next to the elf...and another, bulkier, who seems to take a defensive stance before several—

_Hobbits?_

Fíli growls and takes another step forward—to cover Kíli, he knows, should they need to go on the offensive. His bow will be useless soon enough, and the precious seconds it would take to draw his sword could cost him his life—

There is no attack, though, even with the others' arrival; they all only seem to stand there, sizing each other up, waiting for something to happen.

(Even so, from what he knows of his uncle's dealings with elves...Kíli realizes that they will be lucky to make it out of here alive.)


	2. II

**II.**

It had seemed just as any other day for Aragorn.

They had stopped for the evening in a clearing, and Sam had started dinner while Gimli and Gandalf wandered off, arguing about the wisdom of entering Moria. Aragorn has his doubts—he has heard tales of Durin's Bane, after all, and the Battle of Dimrill Dale was not all that long ago—but if Gimli says his relatives have reclaimed the mines, then he thinks he trusts the dwarf's judgment.

(It's not like they have any other choice, at this point.)

Legolas has gone scouting to make sure they are well and truly alone, and Aragorn thinks nothing of it when he is gone a few minutes longer than usual. It's only when he's been gone nearly half an hour that he starts to grow concerned...and looking up at the other five in the clearing, he knows they feel the same way.

"Should we go looking for him?" Pippin asks nervously, glancing between Aragorn and Boromir. "I mean, could he have gotten into trouble?"

Orcs would not be this quiet, Aragorn decides quickly. If there is any sort of danger, it is more than likely from something else.

In any case, they should investigate.

"Be cautious," he says, rising and listening attentively to try and guess where Legolas is. "Boromir, protect the hobbits when we arrive. Hopefully Legolas and I can take care of whatever this is, but if we cannot..."

Boromir nods sharply, drawing his sword and waiting for Aragorn to choose a direction before all six of them make their way into the trees.

It's not terribly hard to find the elf, once Aragorn's estimation is proven correct. Legolas is speaking with someone—_two_ someones—as Aragorn glances carefully around a tree... But Legolas' bow is drawn, and the strangers are armed; that is all Aragorn needs to decide they should intervene.

Legolas barely twitches when Aragorn arrives at his side, stepping nearly soundlessly and holding his sword defensively in front of him as he sizes up the enemy. He can hear Boromir herding the hobbits against a thick tree behind them, planting his feet and waiting to see how the situation will play out...

The strangers, however, are not so quiet when they arrive. They're dwarves, Aragorn can see now; the blond wields twin swords, and a ferocious snarl is on his face as he takes a step forward, clearly protective of the other. The dark one, curiously, carries a bow, and he seems to waver at the others' arrival for a moment before keeping it trained on Legolas.

Dwarves do not often master archery, Aragorn knows, but this one's form is faultless. Though his arms are starting to shake from the strain, he does not relax his grip, barely even blinks as he watches their group with sharp eyes, waiting for something to happen...

_They're young._ Aragorn does not often spend time with dwarves, but he can tell that these are barely of the age of majority, if their short beards are anything to estimate by. Their clothing is worn but of high quality, and their weapons are extremely well-made; but above all, Aragorn can see the barely masked fear in their eyes as they watch the larger group. The fair-haired one shifts slightly, adjusting his grip on the swords and only deepening his scowl as he continues to stare at them, almost challenging... They're clearly expecting one of them to strike first.

Aragorn does not know them, but he realizes that they mean no harm...that they are even more confused than the rest of them. He sheathes his sword.

The dwarves' eyes flash in confusion before refocusing on Legolas, clearly not willing to let their guard down while the elf is still a threat. "Lower your bow," Aragorn murmurs to Legolas, who only stares at the dwarves with narrowed eyes before obeying. From behind them, Aragorn can hear Boromir hesitate before sheathing his own blade; however, he does not step forward, surely still standing protectively in front of the hobbits.

The results are slow in coming, but eventually, both of them relax their defensive stances; their gazes are still piercing, though, and Aragorn knows he will need to convince them that they mean no harm. "What are dwarves doing in these parts?" he asks after a moment, raising an eyebrow. "If you are not from Moria, as you say, then you are far from home."

The blond straightens to his full height—here, strangely, Aragorn can see an air of nobility about him, despite his age—and replies in a clipped tone, "Perhaps we could answer, if you would tell us where we are."

The other dwarf twitches, his dark eyes glancing toward his companion before refocusing on Legolas. His gaze is utterly mistrusting, which Aragorn finds strange...after all, as strained as relations have been in the past between the two races, they have been on the way to mending, especially as the darkness of Mordor now spreads over Middle Earth. Though Gimli and Legolas waste no kindness on each other, there still seems to be an inherent sense of _trust_ there.

Here, with these two, there is nothing of the sort.

"We are on the western edges of the Misty Mountains, several days north of the gates of Moria," Aragorn says in reply, trying to gauge their reactions. Their shoulders jerk, and their eyes widen for a moment before they quickly regain their composure.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he continues when they do not seem about to reply, inclining his head ever so slightly. "This is Legolas, of the Greenwood realm, and behind me is Boromir of Gondor. We mean you no harm; we were only defending our camp."

The dark one snorts softly but makes no move to reply; after several moments, the blond finally narrows his eyes and says, "I am Fíli, son of Dís, and this is my brother Kíli. We have apparently been separated from our companions—last night, we were on the western borders of Mirkwood."

Boromir makes an astonished noise behind them, and Aragorn feels his eyes widen as he realizes just how vast that distance is. Even the great eagles, he thinks, would not be able to cover it in so short a time; but if they are telling the truth, then how—?

Legolas' reaction to the dwarves' introduction, however, is much more drastic than Aragorn would ever expect from the elf. His mouth actually drops open slightly as his eyes widen, and as Aragorn watches, his gaze roves over the dwarves slowly before he seems to come to some sort of conclusion. He turns to Aragorn, his face strangely pale, and opens his mouth—

Before he can say anything, though, they hear the hurried tromping of Gimli's heavy footsteps behind them, accompanied by Gandalf's lighter tread; soon enough, the two of them have come upon the path. Gandalf's eyebrows are nearly disappearing under the brim of his hat as he stares questioningly at Aragorn, and Gimli seems ready to yell at them all for leaving the camp unguarded—

"Gandalf! Gandalf, what's going on? What are you doing here?"

Kíli's voice is loud and surprised, and both of the newcomers turn to look at the dwarves. Kíli's eyes are wide, while Fíli's brows are rising quickly on his forehead. "I thought you and Radagast were leaving this morning!"

When Gandalf and Gimli get a good look at them, though, their reactions are strange and instantaneous. Gandalf nearly loses his grip on his staff, his eyes widening to almost comical proportions. Gimli is actually struck dumb for a moment, and he takes several steps backward; his mouth gapes open as he stares at Fíli and Kíli.

_"Gandalf, what sorcery is this?"_

He finally seems to find his voice, but it is strangely high and hoarse; his hands shake violently as he levels his axe at Fíli and Kíli. The younger dwarves blink back at him, half-raising their weapons as if not sure whether they are being attacked...but after a moment, Kíli's eyes widen even further, and he says tentatively, "_Gimli...?"_

Aragorn only has a moment to wonder if they all know each other, whether these dwarves also hail from Erebor (though if they do, he wonders what has brought them so far from home) before Fíli jerks, his gaze flickering from his brother to Gimli before saying, "Gandalf, what's happening...?"

Gandalf still seems to be collecting himself, leaning heavily on his staff as he stares intently at the dwarves. "I...do not know," he says at length, glancing to Gimli before returning his attention to the other dwarves. "Fíli, Kíli, what do you last remember?"

"Radagast met us just outside Mirkwood, last night," Fíli says quickly, almost impatiently, staring curiously at Gimli's still-shaking axe before continuing, "You were to leave this morning, before we entered the forest, but—"

"You were with your uncle and his Company?" Gandalf cuts him off, frowning as his brows furrow further. Fíli huffs impatiently.

"Yes, of course we were—where else would we be?—"

Gandalf does not listen any further; he stares at the dwarves for a moment longer before abruptly turning, heading in the direction of their camp. "You two should come with us for the time being, I think."

They stare at the wizard's retreating back before glancing at each other, silent for a moment before shrugging and nodding. They make their way forward, tucking their weapons away and giving the four hobbits curious looks as they pass.

Gimli has not moved from his frozen position, but his eyes follow the dwarves like a hawk's as they pass him. Kíli, who is nearer, seems to hesitate for a moment, almost reaching out a hand as if to touch him...but when Gimli flinches away, he retracts it as if burnt and follows quickly after his brother.

Odd, that these two dwarves—so much younger than Gimli—could elicit such a reaction from him.

Boromir and the hobbits are left in their wake, and the five of them stare at Aragorn and Legolas uncertainly as Gimli follows after the others. "What was that about?" Boromir asks after a moment. "I have never seen Gandalf so flustered."

Legolas only shakes his head, offering no explanation before following the others soundlessly into the trees. Aragorn shrugs slightly, for truly, he has no idea what just happened; hopefully, someone will explain, will tell them why they acted as if they just saw a ghost—

"So I reckon this'll mean adding more to the stewpot?" Sam ventures after a stretch of silence, squinting after the dwarves. "With the way Gimli puts it away, and all..."

Aragorn almost laughs...trust a hobbit to worry about dinner when so many unanswered questions still hang in the air. "Yes, dwarves' appetites are legendary," he agrees, beginning to walk back to the camp. "And maybe, if we feed them enough, they'll tell us what's going on..."

.

.

The young dwarves do, in fact, seem to be champion eaters.

The camp is slightly awkward as Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas stand off to one side, conversing quietly but with enthusiastic gestures, occasionally glancing toward Fíli and Kíli. Aragorn knows they have nothing to fear from these dwarves, because Gimli and Gandalf obviously recognize them and do not consider them a threat... But he still is not sure what is happening, and he hates it—how could two young dwarves travel from Mirkwood to the Misty Mountains in the span of less than a day? Why are the others so surprised to see them? _What is going on?_

He wants so badly to ask but knows now is not the time...so he only tucks into his soup quietly, nodding gratefully to Sam as the hobbit sits nearby, awaiting the verdict on his cooking.

Fíli and Kíli, unsurprisingly, have wrangled their second bowls already, and are finishing them off neatly even while Aragorn is not quite done with his first. They seem content to speak to each other in quick, furtive signs—Iglishmêk, Aragorn knows it is called, though he knows nothing of the language. Anyhow, the two of them seem intent on not allowing anyone to get a good look at their hands, so he gives it up after a moment and simply tucks into his meal.

Eventually, the dwarves put down their cleaned-out bowls, and they beam over at Sam, nodding their approval of his cooking. "This is really excellent, Master Hobbit!" Kíli says, and his voice is cheerful, more casual than it was back on the path. Aragorn's amazed at the transformation as the dwarf continues, stretching his arms above his head, "You and Bombur could get along quite well, I expect—"

Fíli elbows his brother lightly with a grin, though there is no true reproach there, and inclines his head toward Sam. "I'm not sure we heard your name, in all the madness earlier. Nor any of yours..." He turns to the other hobbits inquiringly. "How did they convince you all to go on an adventure, anyway? We had enough trouble convincing only _one_ of your kind to leave his home."

Kíli laughs merrily at that, leaning back against a tree and staring at the hobbits expectantly. They introduce themselves easily enough, though Frodo needs some prompting, for his brow is furrowed in apparent deep thought as he stares into the darkness. Sam glances worriedly at his friend's chest, where he knows the Ring is hidden; Aragorn feels equal concern, but knows it is not yet his business to intervene. His purpose in this quest is to protect the Ringbearer from their enemies. His own inner demons, on the other hand...Frodo will have to overcome them himself.

"Frodo Baggins," he says at length, nodding courteously to the dwarves when Merry nudges his shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

"Baggins?" Fíli says, his eyebrows rising high as he rests his pipe on his knee. "Do you know Bilbo?"

All four hobbits stiffen at that, and the dwarves take notice; they lean forward, and Kíli's grin is genuine as he says, "Bilbo's great, you know—he's saved our lives more than once since we dragged him along. I bet he's worrying about us right now, along with the rest of them—"

"Bilbo's spent the last twenty years in Rivendell," Frodo says quietly, staring at the dwarves levelly. "He took me in when I was a tween, after my parents died, and raised me like a son. But he is old, now, living with the elves..."

The blank expressions on the dwarves' faces are rather terrifying, and Aragorn shares a worried look with Boromir over the hobbits' heads as the silence stretches longer. Finally, Kíli breaks it, the mirth on his face replaced completely with alarm as he says—"He's not old—he can't be much older than you are, now! And anyhow, we just saw him yesterday, with the rest of the Company—he's not in _Rivendell_—"

"That, Master Kíli, is what we need to discuss," Gandalf's booming voice cuts across the conversation, and everyone's heads whip around as the wizard strides forward, a troubled Gimli and Legolas trailing behind. "Bilbo is not with the Company at the moment. In fact, it's been quite a while since he has been."

Fíli stiffens, his hand gravitating toward one of his swords before he says, "What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that it has been eighty years since the Company of Thorin Oakenshield traveled through Mirkwood," Gandalf says, staring down at the dwarves with hard eyes, "and we have no explanation for why you two are here right now."

Thunderous silence. Aragorn's mind whirls through the implications of such a statement... Thorin Oakenshield—he knows the name, though he was only a child when the dwarves stopped in Rivendell so many years ago. The story is legend, now; he knows Erebor was reclaimed, knows that the dragon was killed by the men of Esgaroth, knows that the dwarven king was slain in the ensuing battle—

_And so were his_ _heirs_, because a lord from the Iron Hills took the throne. Dáin Ironfoot, if he remembers correctly, is King under the Mountain: the one who sent Gimli and his father to the council in Rivendell...

"We're—we're eighty years in the future?" Kíli's voice is hoarse as he stares up at Gandalf, his gaze flickering briefly to Gimli before refocusing on the wizard—"But how—?"

"You can send us back, right?" Fíli asks, and his voice is stiff, formal—_that of nobility,_ Aragorn realizes with a sinking feeling in his gut—as he stands abruptly. He's looking up at Gandalf, but he's not tilting his head back—is looking at him through the tops of his eyes, like—

Like Aragorn's seen dwarves of royal families do, so as not to show weakness to the taller races.

"I have never heard of this happening before," Gandalf says slowly, his face crumpled in thought. "I will do my best to set this right, but our quest must continue to go forward—"

"_Your_ quest?" Fíli asks, his voice rising slightly. "What about _our_ quest? We can't just leave Thorin and the others! We have to get back!"

Aragorn sees Boromir open his mouth—his pale face, wide eyes, show that they've likely come to the same conclusion—but Aragorn shakes his head sharply at him. To tell these dwarves that their quest will succeed, but that they will pay for the mountain with their lives... If they are right (and he truly hopes they are not, because these dwarves are young—_far _too young to die in such a gruesome battle), it should be told by Gimli or Gandalf...someone who knows them, someone who was there...

Gandalf seems oblivious to their silent conversation, is instead frowning down at Fíli as he snaps, "Despite what you might think, there are more important things happening in Middle Earth than the reclaiming of your homeland, especially in these times. Now, tell me—you have already passed under the Misty Mountains?"

"Yes, of course we have," Fíli says impatiently, apparently unperturbed by Gandalf's shortness. "We were to enter Mirkwood this morning—"

"—So Bilbo has acquired his ring?"

Both dwarves frown at that, even as the rest of the Fellowship immediately stiffens. "He hasn't told us anything about a ring," Kíli says slowly, getting to his feet to stand next to his brother. "Why, is it important? We can ask him once you send us back."

"It is _very_ important," Gandalf says, and Aragorn sees Frodo clutch the front of his tunic as the wizard continues, "I do not know whether you will be able to change the future, but you must tell either me or Bilbo _immediately_ upon your return."

"All right," Kíli says warily, even as his brother frowns deeply at Gandalf. "Can you tell us anything else about it, or—?"

"Do not let Thorin handle it. Don't let _anyone_ handle it, except Bilbo. If at all possible, it should not enter the mountain." Aragorn frowns at this, even as Gimli gives a small huff of understanding, staring at Gandalf for a moment before returning his attention to his friends. "It very well may—"

"So we make it into the mountain?" Kíli cuts him off, his eyes widening as a grin splits his face. "We kill Smaug?"

Gandalf sighs, staring levelly at them for a moment before nodding slowly. "That is not the only problem you—"

But the dwarves aren't listening; Fíli's scowl has all but vanished, a huge grin instead splitting his face as he turns to his brother, punching him cheerfully on the shoulder.

"So Gimli, you're living with us in Erebor, then? What're you doing all the way out here?" Kíli asks, turning to the older dwarf with an easy smile on his face. It's as if a great weight has been lifted from his and his brother's shoulders, hearing that their quest succeeds; they look like nothing could dampen their spirits, like everything they've ever wanted in the world has just been handed to them on a silver platter—

"It's a rather long story," Gimli says, and he's clearly doing his damnedest to smile at his friends, "but yes, we're—we're all living in Erebor."

(But watching Gimli's face positively _crumple_ as Fíli and Kíli turn away, chattering excitedly...Aragorn knows his suspicions are correct.)

(These are Thorin Oakenshield's heirs, and they will not survive the great battle before the gates of Erebor.)

.

.

_"Did you say they can change the way their journey ends?"_

Gimli's vehement whisper to Gandalf only just carries to Aragorn's ears as he, Legolas, and Boromir sit nearby, warming themselves by the fire. Fíli and Kíli have settled themselves down next to the hobbits, a ways away; they're chatting animatedly with Merry about something or other, gesticulating wildly and even doing their best to drag a reticent Frodo into the conversation. After all, _"Bilbo didn't like talking much, either, but we fixed that pretty quickly. And since you're both Bagginses—!"_

Aragorn can't help but laugh quietly at their antics, because it does seem that they're doing the hobbit some good. Even if he stares at them in a way that makes it clear Bilbo told him exactly how their story ends, they've been able to elicit several laughs from him, and Sam is positively _beaming_ at the dwarves as the evening goes on.

Boromir squints at Fíli and Kíli as well for a moment longer before sighing. "So, they were the heirs to the throne of Erebor," he says, quiet and sad, watching their antics as a laughing Kíli pulls his brother into a headlock. "They're barely of age—how did they _ever_ convince the king to take them—"

"Thorin Oakenshield was a very harsh dwarf," Legolas says quietly, and both of them turn as he continues—"He was fiercely protective of his family, especially his nephews, but he did not show it well. It's likely they're trying to prove themselves to him." He sighs, his gaze far away as he continues, "My father was doing his best to negotiate peace, after they retook the mountain... If those weeks had gone differently, if we had been better prepared for battle...I truly believe they would not have died. They are talented warriors."

Aragorn hums in response, glancing over to the dwarves again. They seem to be entirely different people than they were only hours ago, standing on the path; then, they were lost and frightened but willing to fight to the death to defend each other. Then, they had seemed the warrior princes they surely had been brought up to be.

Now, they seem innocent and cheerful...and, somehow, this is much more fitting.

"They were found lying over the king," Legolas continues, his voice nearly inaudible now. "Their deaths were not swift. They defended him to the end, and even if it was in vain..." He shakes his head, falling silent. This time, he does not continue.

Aragorn forces himself to tear his gaze from the young ones—Kíli is ruffling Frodo's hair as the others laugh—and refocuses his attentions on Gimli and Gandalf's hushed discussion. "I said I did not know what will happen, should they attempt to change the course of the battle," Gandalf is saying, his face darkening as he draws on his pipe. "It could have consequences that we cannot foresee, consequences that could change everything."

"Too many good soldiers died in that battle," Gimli says darkly. "You were there, Gandalf. You know what happened. If we tell them that the orcs are massing, if we tell them of Thorin's sickness—perhaps he can fight it, especially if you are right about the Ring. He could negotiate with the men and elves, prepare for the battle—send for more soldiers—"

"We are speaking of vague uncertainties," Gandalf says, his tone flat, though his gaze lingers on the two young dwarves for several seconds before he continues, "They may not be able to change anything at all. I do not wish to worry them for something we may not be able to—"

"_They were my friends!"_ Gimli's voice is a stifled roar, and Aragorn sees Fíli and Kíli look up curiously from the other side of the clearing. The dwarf seems to check himself, lowering his voice to nothing but a whisper as he continues, "I cannot just—if there is a chance to save them, to save Thorin—Dáin is a good king, Gandalf, but he is not Thorin Oakenshield!"

"You think I do not know this? I mourned their deaths just as you did. But would you truly have them survive the battle only to be killed in these times, by Sauron's followers?"

"They are only children," Gimli bites out. "I would have them survive that damned battle at any cost."

Aragorn glances back to the hobbits; they are clearly trying to distract Fíli and Kíli from the escalating argument. (Frodo, at least, understands what is happening...and even if the others do not, they're following his lead.) The dwarves seem confused but willingly allow themselves to be dragged into a lively discussion about something or other...

And he thinks that he agrees with Gimli—that if there is a chance to spare these boys' lives...it would be nothing short of cruel to ignore it.


	3. III

**III.**

Kíli knows something strange is going on.

He isn't stupid, no matter what some of the people back home seem to think. He's been trained as a warrior, a blacksmith, a diplomat; life in Ered Luin was not the typical childhood of a dwarven prince, but he is glad for it. He has had experience with other races as a common dwarf, rather than a prince of Erebor...and here, it has come in useful.

He knows, after a few hours of watching the others warily, that the elf and the two men mean them no harm...but he also knows that something has greatly unsettled all of them.

Gimli—it _is_ Gimli, which was mind-numbingly bizarre until Gandalf explained their situation—has been unnaturally pale all evening, has pulled Gandalf to the other side of the clearing and is speaking to him in a harsh undertone that even Kíli's keen ears cannot make out. (He hasn't yet said a proper word to either of them, which Kíli finds odd. Despite their age difference, in Ered Luin, they have always been good friends...)

Aragorn, Boromir, and the elf are seated near Gimli and Gandalf, but the dark-haired man's gaze has been focused almost exclusively on Kíli and his brother. It's strange, because he's sure they've never met—knows that the lifespan of men is much shorter than that of dwarves, and that he was not even born when they started their quest. Nevertheless, his eyes are piercing, and Kíli does his best to ignore it for the time being.

(Fíli's hand, however, has not left the throwing axe tucked discreetly into his boot.)

Frodo looks strangely old and weary, a demeanor Kíli has only ever seen in those scarred by war. The other three hobbits are clearly younger and more cheerful, unburdened by whatever haunts Bilbo's relative... All five of them do their best to distract him from whatever is happening inside his head, but it almost seems like something is physically weighing him down. He often sits hunched over, staring into the darkness as the rest of them discuss this or that...and their conversation wanders as the minutes pass them by.

It's easy to talk with the hobbits, though, and these ones seem much less inclined to propriety than Bilbo. Sam is more reticent than the others, but he appears comfortable enough with their presence, and once Fíli compliments him again on his cooking (which, Kíli must admit, was excellent), he seems much more inclined to talk.

(The others' hushed discussions, too far away for him to hear, still linger on the edges of Kíli's senses; he wants so desperately to know what they are saying...)

The hobbits don't seem aware of anything strange, though—Pippin is talking cheerfully about Gandalf's fireworks, about how at Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party, he and Merry filched some of them, setting them off rather spectacularly and scaring the wits out of half the Shire. Kíli wants to laugh, and he thinks that at any other time he would, but the idea of Bilbo being far past one hundred and eleven years old—which, he knows, is extraordinarily ancient for a hobbit—is mind-boggling, and absurdly, he wants to be sick.

_Eighty years..._he wants to know, how has reconstruction of the mountain come along? Erebor's relations with the elves and men? Is Thorin still well?—because he'd be well into his two hundreds by this point—and what has happened to him and Fíli over the years; have they married, had any children? Is their mother still present, exasperating Thorin (like any younger sibling would) but providing a strong support for all of them when they need it? Did Bilbo ever visit, when he was younger, come to see the friends he made so many years ago?

What has happened after so much time has passed; how has the world changed? And what has brought about this strange company, composed of so many people from different races and creeds, who would normally refuse even to speak with each other?

The conversation has waned between the six of them, and though there is still a deep crease in Fíli's brow, in Frodo's, the other hobbits seem strangely relaxed. In addition, the conversations on the other side of the clearing seem to have wound down as well; as Kíli looks up, he sees Gimli seat himself heavily next to Aragorn, only nodding briefly at the man before staring away into the darkness, a harsh frown marring his features. Gandalf, on the other hand, makes his way toward Kíli and Fíli, and he looks every bit the old man he appears to be as he seats himself next to Frodo.

"I'm sure you two have many questions," he says at length, nodding to both of them and making Fíli snort softly. "I do not think I am the right person to answer them; however, should you ask Gimli, I'm sure he would be willing to fill you in. Much has happened since your journey east...however, the current state of Middle Earth is something you should know about immediately."

He pauses, chewing on his pipe for a moment and staring levelly at them both. Fíli is almost vibrating with anticipation, and Kíli is just about ready to blurt out a demand for information before the wizard continues—"I'm assuming you know of Sauron?"

Kíli can only blink back at him for a moment, completely thrown by the seeming non sequitur. "He was...the Dark Lord of Mordor, right?" he offers tentatively, trying to remember back to the history lessons Balin insisted they sit through as children. "Wasn't he destroyed in the Second Age?"

"Weakened. Not destroyed." Gandalf says, and his face grows dark and pensive; he glances at a suddenly tense Frodo before returning his attention to the dwarves. "He has returned, seeking the Ring of Power that was lost to him. This Fellowship has set out to destroy it, because if the Ring returns to its master...Middle Earth as we know it will be destroyed."

Kíli nods slowly, not entirely sure why Gandalf is telling them this (surely, an imminent war is important, but why—?)...but Fíli suddenly pulls in a great whoosh of air, his eyes widening as he stares up at Gandalf. "That's—that's the ring you said Bilbo found? It's _Sauron's?_"

Gandalf nods heavily, and Kíli feels his own eyes widen as the wizard says, "You must tell me immediately when you return to your proper time. If it is possible to destroy it then, when Sauron is not as strong..."

"You were going to leave this morning, though," Fíli says suddenly, his brows rising. "You and Radagast had something you had to attend to, you said. If you don't send us back to the time _before_ you leave, it may be a while before we see you again."

Gandalf seems to be struck dumb by this; his grip tightens on his staff, and his face goes slack for a moment as he only stares at both of them. Eventually, he collects himself, shaking his head sharply and saying, "You must tell me before I leave, do you understand? If you do not..." He shakes his head, reaching up to rub at his face before continuing, "Do you have any idea what might have caused this? If I am to send you back to your proper time, I must know how you got here in the first place."

Kíli feels his face color even as he sends a cheeky grin to an exasperated Fíli; Gandalf raises an eyebrow as the blond pulls the near-empty vial from his coat, holding it out to the wizard. "Radagast _may_ have left it on a log last night," Fíli says, letting the wizard snatch the vial out of his hand. "It was entirely Kíli's idea. I didn't think it would actually do anything."

Despite the annoyance he's clearly attempting to convey, Fíli can't seem to help the smirk spreading across his face. Gandalf huffs impatiently at both of them and mutters something about _idiot dwarves, I'll knock your heads together for your stupidity, no wonder your uncle went grey young... _

Kíli can't find it himself to regret it, though; he grins widely at his brother—and at the hobbits, for Merry and Pippin are snickering, off to Kíli's right. Even Frodo and Sam look amused as Gandalf whacks Kíli on the back of the head and swirls what little is left in the flask. "I will look into this," he says at length, sending them both a harsh glance that Kíli is not at all offended by. "In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable. You will travel with us until I can correct this, and we start early; these lands are not safe."

He stands with a swish of his robes, and then he is gone.

.

.

Eventually, Kíli can't take it anymore; the utterly dejected look on Gimli's face, across the fire, is too much for him to bear. The image of the over-energetic sixty-two year old from their own time does not at all match up with this battle-hardened, full-bearded warrior...but surely, he's still _Gimli._ And Gimli is his friend.

He stands, yanking on Fíli's coat to pull him along as he makes his way over to the other group. Gandalf has disappeared into the trees, grasping the vial tightly and muttering to himself. The elf has positioned himself on the side of the clearing not backed by a rock wall, clearly fancying himself as their watch... Kíli still doesn't think he trusts him—even if Gimli and the hobbits obviously do—but that isn't what he needs to worry about right now.

The two men look up at their approach, nodding politely, and the blond stands without a word, retreating to sit with the hobbits instead. Kíli finds he is grateful for this; after all, they could have this discussion in Khuzdul or Iglishmêk (because it's one he thinks he doesn't want others listening to), but he knows Thorin would have their hides for using either in plain view of Men.

The darker one—Aragorn—hesitates, looking to Gimli as if wondering whether he should stay or go. Gimli has barely looked up from his pipe this whole time, but eventually, he waves a hand in Aragorn's direction, glancing up at Fíli and Kíli as they sit down. The man sighs and stands up, staring at them all with a strange look in his eye before going to join the elf.

Then, the three of them are alone.

Gimli's face is strangely pale beneath his thick red hair, and he's clenching his pipe so tightly between his teeth that Kíli knows the older dwarf will not be the one to start the conversation. He casts around for something to say _(this shouldn't be hard—_they grew up together in Ered Luin, after all), floundering for a moment before Fíli finally says, a hint of amusement in his voice—"This is stranger than I thought it would be."

Gimli snorts, still not meeting their eyes as he nods his agreement. "Aye, I don't think I've ever seen anything stranger."

"Is...is something wrong?" Kíli blurts out, scooting a few inches closer but freezing when Gimli flinches. "I mean. I know you're older now, but did something happen? Are we not friends anymore...?"

"No!" Gimli says loudly, his voice surprised as he looks Kíli fully in the face for the first time tonight. "No, it's not that. This is just...much stranger for me than it is for you. Seeing you how you were before you left on that quest..."

He spits the word like a curse (which Kíli doesn't understand but decides to ignore for the moment) before shaking his head. "It has been a very long time."

"Well, yes, I'm sure Kíli has a proper beard by now," Fíli says lightly, grinning and punching his brother on the shoulder. "I'm surprised you even recognized him with this peach fuzz."

Kíli growls but allows it to be said without rebuke, because it's easy to see that he's attempting to lighten the mood. But instead of laughing, Gimli only lets out a shuddering breath and does not meet their eyes. "Does my beard _not_ come in?" Kíli nearly shrieks, his hands flying to his jawline in horror. Wild images of his 160-year-old self with facial hair like _this_—he'd be an utter disgrace. Even dwarf_ women_ have more than—

Instead of immediately alleviating his fears as Kíli hoped he would, Gimli only seems to take several deep, steadying breaths, and his hands shake terribly as he sets his pipe down on the ground. "It's...rather complicated. I don't know where to start."

Kíli falters, looking to his brother for help, because the desolate look on Gimli's face is so far beyond anything he's ever seen before. He's always known Gimli as impulsive and rambunctious; seeing him like this is easily the most frightening thing that's happened since he awoke in this place.

Fíli looks just as lost, his eyes wide with worry as he stares at their friend. Finally—"What's...wrong? I mean, what's so terrible about seeing us now?"

Gimli only shakes his head, though, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. Neither of them dares to interrupt his thoughts until he finally says, "Sauron's Ring...the Ring Bilbo has...it's a master of manipulation."

Kíli nods slowly, not willing to interrupt even if he doesn't understand the relevance. "It bends those around it to its will. Causes violence and madness. Smaug was killed, but the moment Thorin entered the mountain was when your real trouble began."

Kíli doesn't quite know how to reply (how could there be anything worse than the _dragon,_ for Mahal's sake?), but he continues soon enough, "The gold...I'm sure it wouldn't have happened without the Ring—he was always so much stronger than that—but his grandfather's sickness took hold of him. And—"

_"No!"_ Fíli's face is turning red, and his shout is loud enough to cause Boromir and the hobbits to jump and look over with wide eyes. "He wouldn't! Thorin would never—"

"He did," Gimli says loudly, and even as Kíli feels his heart in his throat he can't deny that there is nothing on his friend's face but the truth. "But you can stop it, if you tell Gandalf of the Ring. You _have_ to, because..."

He chokes and does not continue, his eyes downcast again even as Kíli and Fíli lean closer, horrified. "_What happened, Gimli?"_ Fíli says, his voice harsh and desperate.

"You—Thorin was too busy arguing with the men and elves over gold," he says, and his voice is horribly gruff as he stares at his hands. "Nobody noticed the goblin army until it was nearly too late."

Silence.

"There was a battle." Kíli can barely believe what he's hearing, feels his hands clench until his knuckles whiten, feels his heart pounding in his chest...but he knows Gimli cannot possibly be lying. He would _never _lie about something like this. "My father said it was terrible, nearly as gruesome as Azanulbizar..."

"But you said the mountain was reclaimed!" The words are out of his mouth before Kíli can stop them, and Fíli's head snaps toward him as he continues, "You said we're all living in Erebor! How—"

"The goblins were completely destroyed," Gimli says, still staring at his hands as they twist around each other. "You won the battle. But there was no celebration, because the cost..."

Kíli can hardly breathe; somehow, his hand has found his brother's and latched on tight. Absurdly, he hopes that this simple physical contact will protect them from whatever Gimli is about to say...

(It doesn't.)

"Thorin was—badly injured." Gimli glances up at them, but eye contact seems to be too painful; he looks down again at his hands before he continues haltingly, "He—you two were protecting him. But there were too many goblins, and..."

He trails off, but even if he had continued, Kíli doesn't think he'd be able to hear it; the blood rushing through his ears drowns out everything else, forces him to replay those last lines in his mind. _He can't—he doesn't mean—_

But Fíli's grip on his hand has become painful; he knows there is no other reasonable answer—

And there are _tears_ on Gimli's face, something he hasn't seen since they were children—

And then the final blow, crashing like a hammer into Kíli's gut—"By the time anyone found you, there was no help to be given."

Billowing silence. Even the other conversations, around the clearing, seem to have muted themselves. Kíli's entire world has focused in on his friend's face, twisted in grief; the numbing pressure of his brother's hand twined with his; his own racing _(finite)_ heart pumping blood through his tense _(fragile)_ body—

"Thorin?" Fíli is finally able to choke out, his face chalk-white.

Gimli only shakes his head.

Something like a sob (or a scream) wrenches itself from Kíli's throat, and he grasps desperately for his brother with his second hand even as his gaze never leaves Gimli. "How could this—" he feels his voice choke off, his throat closing in dangerously as the true weight of what Gimli is telling them sets in. _They will die_—they will die protecting Thorin, and it will be in vain—their line will be broken, and though, surely, the mountain prospers under another king, he and his brother and his uncle will not live to see it—

_(Mahal, what about Mother?)_

"You can change it," Gimli says, his voice hoarse, and his eyes finally meet theirs as he continues, "Don't let Bilbo take the Ring into the mountain. Tell Thorin of the army, send for more warriors—_it doesn't have to end like this._"

Kíli realizes the relevance of what Gimli is telling them, realizes that it is perhaps the most important thing he will ever hear in his life (_whatever's left of it)..._but he can't bring himself to understand the words. His ears are ringing and his hands are shaking, and he thinks he feels tears brimming in his eyes even as he blinks desperately to hold them back.

_Thorin would be disappointed in him if he cried._ But would their uncle not weep as well, after hearing such terrible news?

Fíli's arms tremble as he yanks on Kíli's hands, pulling him into a rough, impossibly tight hug and burying his face into his shoulder with a sob. Kíli strokes his brother's hair even as his own tears finally spill over, holding onto Fíli with a grip that's probably painful. He feels a large, rough (shaking) hand settle on his back and stay there, Gimli offering his own grief and support...

There are more important things to worry about than his own death—even more important than Fíli's and Thorin's, if Gandalf's tales of Sauron's return are to be believed. He needs to pull himself out of his misery; he needs to listen and learn so he can fix this; he needs to do right by this situation that he has so carelessly thrown both of them into...

But here he wants, if only for a moment, to be selfish. Every time he blinks, he envisions his brother cold and still and _dead;_ every time, his wounds are different but equally gruesome. Spears or arrows or swords or maces or even wargs' teeth—it's a never-ending litany of horror that only brings fresh tears to his eyes as time drags on. He buries his face into Fíli's shoulder, only ever gripping him tighter, reveling in the tremors and the short, harsh breaths that mean his brother is still, undoubtedly, _alive._

All he wants right now is to seek comfort in Fíli and Gimli; he wants to mourn the future that would have been _(and could still be); _he prays desperately to the gods to spare his family's lives...

The two of them will deal with their new responsibilities later. They will see it done; they will bring news back to Gandalf and to Thorin, will change the course of the battle and save countless lives; they will _live—_he will make sure of it—and face whatever problems that new world will bring.

But not right now...right now, his whole existence is his brother and his friend, is their heaving lungs and their pounding hearts, and he knows the rest of the world will simply have to wait.


	4. IV

**IV. **

Pippin doesn't understand what's going on, and he absolutely hates it.

Time-traveling dwarves? All right, he doesn't understand, but he'll do his best to take it in stride. After all, in a world where four hobbits leave their comfortable smials to go on a suicidal quest to Mordor_,_ stranger things have probably happened.

Gandalf looks worried. But then, he usually does, these days, and Pippin supposes he can understand that too. Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir...are also clearly shaken up by all that's happened this evening. But for what reason? They're just dwarves, after all. It's not as if they're orcs or Sauron himself invading their camp.

Gimli's—strong, stalwart Gimli's—face has been a mask of horror and grief since he first set eyes on Fíli and Kíli, and it's driving Pippin mad not knowing why.

There's something strange happening—he knows this for sure. Gimli and Gandalf have been off on the edges of the clearing for much of the night, clearly arguing though Pippin can't make out their words. Fíli—older than his brother, because Pippin's seen the protective look on his face mirrored daily on Merry's—looks just as confused as Pippin feels, subtly straining his ears to try and catch the other conversations. It's useless. Even when Gimli raises his voice _("They were my friends!"_—and Pippin wonders with growing trepidation why he speaks in the past tense), there is nothing to glean from their argument.

It's utterly useless, so he decides to think of other things instead.

Frodo's eyes are even more haunted than usual, and his gaze rarely strays from the dwarves as the conversation continues. Pippin wonders vaguely whether Bilbo told his cousin more about the quest than he did the rest of them—because while Pippin recognizes the names _Fíli_ and _Kíli_ from a couple of Bilbo's many tales (the trolls and the apple barrels chief among them), he doesn't remember anything that made those two names, in particular, stand out. In fact, Bilbo almost seemed to avoid speaking about them at all.

Pippin doesn't understand why; they seem like nice enough people, clearly concerned about their situation and the other hushed conversations around the clearing, but still joining in the conversation easily. They speak highly of Bilbo; express astonishment and badly-concealed horror that he is as old as he is now (and Fíli's face contorts ever so slightly when Frodo mentions again that he is staying in Rivendell); regale them with tales of all that has happened so far in their quest...

Some of the stories Pippin has heard from Bilbo; many of them, he hasn't. But as the minutes pass, he finds himself unable to come up with a reason for Bilbo to ignore these two so completely in his stories...not when he spoke so often of all the others.

He's almost glad when Gandalf comes over, when Kíli grabs his brother by the sleeve soon after and drags him toward the fire. Pippin doesn't know how quickly dwarves age (in all honesty, doesn't know anything about dwarves at all), but he supposes that maybe, if they were in their proper time, the two of them would be about the same age as Gimli. At any rate, the three of them seem to know each other, because they sit down easily, causing Boromir and Aragorn to retreat to give them privacy.

(For what? Pippin is too far away to hear Gimli's uncharacteristic muttering, sitting at the wrong angle to see his friend's face properly. But Fíli's and Kíli's features are drawn in concern, and he quickly grows alarmed as Boromir seats himself heavily next to him.)

"Is everything all right?" Merry asks almost immediately, his gaze also locked on the dwarves. "I've never seen Gimli this upset—"

Boromir hums, saying nothing for a moment as he repacks his pipe. He glances to Frodo before answering, and Pippin sees his friends' eyes flash in pain before Boromir says, "There are...some complications that have arisen, aside from the fact that they have been so greatly misplaced."

"What, that they could fix things? That's good, right? So we wouldn't have to be doing any of this at all?" Pippin guesses quickly, his brow furrowing as he strains to hear the dwarves' conversation. (It's no use.) "Gandalf can send them back, right?"

Boromir is silent again, his gaze lingering on Fíli and Kíli for a moment before turning to Frodo, almost in question. It seems to take a moment to bring him back to the conversation at hand, but eventually Frodo shakes his head, eyes wandering over his companions' faces before he says, "Bilbo never told you how the quest ended, did he?"

"The dragon was killed," Merry says quickly, raising an eyebrow. "The dwarves got their mountain back, and Thorin was crowned—"

But Frodo is shaking his head even as Boromir gives a soft noise of dissent, and he glances again at the dwarves before saying, "I suppose that's the story he told the rest of the Shire...likely, the story as he wishes it would have gone."

Nobody says anything, though Pippin's attention is momentarily distracted as Fíli raises his voice across the clearing. "There was a battle, after the mountain was reclaimed," Frodo says at length, not meeting any of their eyes. "A goblin army from the Misty Mountains. Thorin was killed. And his nephews...died defending his body."

Pippin sucks in a harsh breath, understanding his meaning even before fully registering why...and his gaze unwittingly finds Fíli and Kíli—_Thorin's nephews, his heirs_—even as they are surely hearing this same terrible news. _They're dead. They're going to die. They're not going to be kings, not going to see their home restored._ They barely look older than him, but have been trained for war all their lives...and in the end, it is going to take everything from them. Pippin—even as he is a member of this doomed Fellowship—knows he cannot even begin to understand such horrible things.

"I never realized how young they were," Frodo continues, his voice almost inaudible now. "Bilbo never liked to speak of them...even after all these years, it hurt too much...but I never imagined..."

The five of them descend into horrible silence, only able to watch as Fíli's and Kíli's terrible cries turn into desperate sobs...and Pippin, for all his cheer and youth, truly thinks he has never felt so desolate in all his life.

(And if there were anything he could do to save their lives...he'd agree to it in an instant.)

.

(Gandalf, looking in on the clearing from the cover of the trees, thinks the same thing.)

.

.

The next morning dawns bright and early, and Pippin doesn't think anyone in the camp got any sleep at all.

Fíli and Kíli, certainly, have been curled up by the fire near Gimli for hours, now, even though Legolas has taken the watch and the fire has since burned down to cinders. Their tears have long subsided, but they do not move much, only staring into nothing...surely contemplating, fully realizing exactly what is waiting for them in their future.

(Maybe Gandalf is right, and they won't be able to change anything...but Pippin hopes with everything he has that this is not the case.)

Gimli has not moved, either, though his eyes flickered briefly when Aragorn sat down next to him again with a familiar pat on the shoulder. No words were spoken, for there really was no need; after all, what is anyone to say in a situation like this?

The night is long, and the eventual morn is bright and melancholy; nobody says much as they pack their bags and prepare for the day's journey.

The young dwarves keep up with the Fellowship, though they lag slightly behind, and Pippin can see Kíli convulsively grab at his brother's sleeve every so often, watches as Fíli's hands constantly twitches toward one of his many weapons. The world is not a safe place, but Pippin would like to think that, surrounded by a wizard and four—_six,_ now—highly-trained warriors, he and his friends will be relatively safe.

He understands the brothers' trepidation, though—knows he would not be handling himself nearly as well as they are in such a situation—so he slows his pace, falling behind Merry and Frodo and Sam. They turn to look at him in question, but he offers no explanation, only pulling his pipe and weed out, inspecting it critically.

There's plenty left—of course there is. He and Merry made sure they were well-stocked.

So once he is in step with the dwarves, he smiles up at them tentatively and offers the pouch, saying quietly, "Would you like to share? It's Longbottom Leaf, best in all the Shire."

Kíli jumps and turns to stare at him, as if he did not notice his presence before; Pippin nearly flinches back, ready to make his escape if his presence is unwelcome...but after a moment, the dwarf smiles slightly, accepting the weed before digging in his pocket for his pipe. "This won't addle our brains too terribly, will it?" he asks, the ghost of a smile flickering on his lips. "Thorin—accidentally smoked some of Bilbo's weed, a few weeks ago, and..." he snorts softly. "I don't think he will ever live it down."

Fíli laughs quietly at the memory, nodding to Pippin as Kíli passes him the pipeweed. "I doubt it," Pippin says cheerfully, shrugging, though he honestly has no idea. "Merry and I smoke it all the time. Gandalf, as well."

Fíli snorts and mutters something under his breath that Pippin can't make out, but Kíli only nods thoughtfully and lights his pipe, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

The three of them are quiet for a time, each lost in his own thoughts, and Pippin is wondering whether he should leave them to it…until Kíli catches his attention quietly, nudging his shoulder and making him look up. The dwarf's face is very serious—it looks strange on him, youthful as he was last night—and he seems to collect his thoughts before saying, "Do you know…of the Company, is everyone else all right? Did they—survive the battle?"

Fíli turns sharply, nearly stumbling over his boots as he stares at Pippin, waiting for the answer. But he's not sure—he doesn't want to lie to them, but seeing as Bilbo didn't tell him the truth in the first place…

"Bilbo…he didn't mention a battle at all, when he told us the story," he says at length, staring down at his toes as they continue walking. "He told us Thorin became king, and—well, that everyone lived happily ever after. It made a very nice tale—a lot of us wished to go on an adventure when we were younger, because of him."

Both of them are silent, digesting such news, and Pippin can't quite make out whether they're upset that their story was altered so greatly. "Frodo—he knows Bilbo best, of course—says it still hurt too much," he says after a moment, in a (probably hopeless) attempt at reassurance. "He still misses you—he'd probably be overjoyed, were he here with us now."

One of them hums quietly, and still Pippin cannot gauge their reactions. "Gimli could tell you for certain," he adds quickly, "or even Frodo—Bilbo told him the whole story, I think. But I'm sure they're all fine…"

Fíli shakes his head minutely, staring ahead toward the front of the group, where Gimli is walking with Boromir and Gandalf. "He's already rattled enough by our presence, here…if anyone else fell, I would not wish to bring up more painful memories."

"You are asking of your companions?" Legolas' quiet voice is unexpected as he falls back from his position by Aragorn, and both dwarves jump slightly, their hands twitching toward their weapons before they check themselves.

"What of it?" Fíli's voice is quiet, almost dangerous, and Pippin wonders why there is such animosity between these two races—because even Gimli does not seem to trust the elf, even when they are supposed to be the most pure creatures in Middle Earth. "I don't think our business is any concern of _yours._"

"I was there, during the battle," Legolas says levelly, apparently unfazed by Fíli's rudeness, and both dwarves' heads snap up. "I also attended your funeral. And of your Company, you and your king perished…but the rest were still living when we took our leave."

Both brothers' shoulders relax the smallest amount, and Kíli sends what may be a grateful look up to the elf even as Fíli seems to be stubbornly refusing to acknowledge him at all. "Gandalf says he should be able to reverse this within the next several days," Legolas continues, nodding to the dwarves. "I truly hope you can change your fates—if there is anything you wish to know, you need only ask."

Fíli grunts in what is undeniably dismissal, and Legolas inclines his head slightly, speeding up again to keep pace with Aragorn. "I think Merry would like a word with you," the elf says over his shoulder, staring at Pippin with his eyebrows raised.

He gets the message quickly—because, really, it probably would be best to leave the dwarves alone for now—and hurries to catch up with his cousin.

.

.

"So where are we going, exactly?"

Kíli's question breaks the comfortable silence that has enveloped them for the past few hours. It's later that afternoon, and Gimli's dropped back to walk with the two of them, rather than the wizard; despite the fact that Gimli's face is still pale and drawn because of their presence, Kíli can't help but fill the silence. After all, it's been months since he's seen Gimli _(decades since Gimli's seen them),_ and he's never been one for sitting quietly. "You're going to destroy the Ring, but who can do that? The elves?"

Fíli makes a disgusted noise beside him, and Kíli elbows him without looking, waiting for Gimli to answer. He's been thinking about this all day—in part, to try and forget what is surely happening (_is going to happen)_ in their own time. They're traveling south very near the mountains, the wrong direction to be making for the High Pass; Kíli has no idea where they might be going, for the only land this side of the mountains is Gondor, in the far south.

Gimli shakes his head, squinting ahead at Gandalf for a moment before replying, "The only place it can be destroyed is Mount Doom, in Mordor."

Kíli feels his breath catch in his throat even as Fíli chokes beside him. "That's a suicide mission!" the blond says, his voice loud and incredulous, staring at Gimli with wide eyes. "Mordor—you can't _possibly_—"

"We have no other choice," Gimli cuts him off, shaking his head and sighing. "Sauron is gaining power every moment—if this damned Ring is not destroyed, there is no hope for anyone in Middle Earth."

"But why—"

"Our lives do not matter." Gimli's voice is gruff, and he does not meet their eyes as he continues, "If we survive only to watch Middle Earth fall to ruin, what good would it do?"

"But—" Kíli truly has no good response to that, knows it to be true…but the idea of his cousin going to his death doesn't sit well with him at all. (Even if he's nearly seven decades older than Kíli, now, all he can truly see is the dwarf too young to accompany them to Erebor, with his tufty beard and his deadly skill with an axe and _he is too young for this,_ no matter what logic or sense tells him now—)

"If it makes you feel better, I'll be doing my best not to die," Gimli says, and the smile he attempts comes out more like a grimace. "Once we get to Moria and replenish our supplies, we should be able to make good time, as long as we don't run into any trouble."

Kíli only blinks at him, even as Fíli makes an incredulous noise beside him. This is the second time someone's mentioned Moria as if it's inhabited, as if it's a safe place to be—and Gimli was brought up on tales of Azanulbizar, just like them. With orcs swarming the mountain—

"Why in Mahal's name would we ever stop in Moria?" Fíli asks, his voice tight. After all, that was where Thrór met his end—where Frerin died, where so many other dwarves were slaughtered—

Gimli only stares back at them before inhaling sharply in understanding. "Balin reclaimed Moria, nigh on thirty years ago, now," he says, nodding a bit. "Took Ori and Óin and plenty of others. Last we heard, everything was going well."

"Truly?" Kíli feels his brows climbing high on his forehead. After all, Khazad-dûm has always been crawling with orcs—for centuries_,_ now—and Balin was _there_, the last time someone tried to take it back. Why would he ever want to—

"We're only a few days out, now," Gimli says, nodding, clearly latching onto this change of topic. "I haven't seen them in _decades_—they'll be happy to help us with whatever we need."

"Should we—I mean—" Kíli's stumbling over his words, a half-created plan forming in his mind even as he realizes it may not be the best idea. "Do you think _we_ should go in?"

His first instinct is to go and see his friends—he's sure that while they've moved on with their lives, they would like to see him and Fíli, even if only for a short time. But at the same time—how cruel would it be to come out of nowhere, announce themselves, look and act just the same as they did before they…before they died? And eventually, they will have to move on; they will have to leave their friends behind and disappear like phantoms from their lives for good…

By Mahal, he wants to see Balin and Ori and Óin again. He misses his companions, and it's scarcely been two days—he can't even imagine what it must be like, to miss someone for as long as they have…

"I think…they would want to see you," Gimli says, his face solemn as he looks up at them. "Balin—he hasn't been the same since Erebor was reclaimed. He was restless. I think he was going mad in that mountain, without you and Thorin there…"

Fíli makes a pained noise but does not reply; Kíli, likewise, doesn't have anything to say to that. Balin—old, reliable Balin—the unshakeable rock that everyone could always rely on…

But he's old, Kíli supposes, and with all that he has lost in his long life, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Everyone has their breaking point, even those he's always thought were invincible.

_Balin, half-mad with grief. Thorin, lost to the gold lust of their line._

And Kíli and Fíli, victims of the cruel hand of fate…unless they are able to fix things when they return.

They _have_ to. His own life be damned—Kíli can't imagine the pain Thorin's death caused the others…the loss of an entire line, leaving—who? Dáin? Mother?—to pick up the pieces—

They _cannot let this happen again. _He will lock Thorin and Fíli into a cupboard if he has to, if it will spare their lives during the battle—he will knock Thorin over the head himself if it means saving him from madness—

And they will have to destroy the Ring as well, lest the world fall to ruin less than a century later.

The _hows_ and _whens_ and thoughts of _is this even possible_ are shoved out of his mind for the moment. He and Fíli will pester Gandalf for every bit of information he can give them, of the rest of their quest and the battle and everything that came after; they will stop in Moria and see those who have thought the two of them long beyond their reach; and then they will return home and set things to rights, saving countless lives in the process…

Because thoughts of anything else happening are simply too terrible to even imagine.

.

.

As the Fellowship draws closer and closer to the western gates of Moria, Aragorn can't shake the nagging feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong.

Fíli and Kíli are more animated than they have been since they arrived here, speaking excitedly of the dwarves they will meet, of the friends who will be so excited to see them after such a long time. _Balin,_ lord of Moria—Ori and Óin, scribe and healer whom they have known since they were all but infants…

Gimli, too, is more relaxed than he has been since the other dwarves arrived, smiling a wide, true smile and laughing along with his friends as they describe dwarven feasts for the benefit of any who will listen. Pippin, especially, seems enthralled by the idea of dining halls that stretch farther than the eye can see, vaulted ceilings laced through with gold and mithril and priceless gems, dishes and silverware made of precious metals and piled impossibly high with food prepared only by the best chefs in the mountain—

Even Boromir looks heartened by Gimli's eloquent descriptions, by Fíli and Kíli's enthusiasm and bright smiles. Legolas is more reserved, though, and Aragorn thinks he shares his worry—Moria, after all, is a cursed place, and even if the dwarves managed to drive the orcs from the mountain, Durin's Bane yet remains: the creature from some of the darkest history of Middle Earth, awakened by greed and blindness, destroyer of all good things that come across it—

But he knows that any warnings he attempts will be futile, that any reservations he voices will fall on deaf ears, and so he keeps his silence.

Their skill with weapons is beyond question, of course. When they stop for rest the second day, Kíli goads Legolas and Aragorn into an archery competition. Aragorn agrees nonchalantly, thinking little of it—dwarves rarely carry bows, he knows, and usually it is for hunting or tactical reasons during defensive maneuvers.

So he is beyond astonished when the dwarf, without fail, hits the dead center of the mark—equaling Legolas in skill (if perhaps not in speed) and easily surpassing Aragorn's abilities.

(Gimli and Fíli only look on with smirks splitting their faces, watching as Kíli laughs openly at the men's shocked faces and accepts Legolas' compliments graciously enough.)

Then, of course, Fíli draws his swords and asks whether anyone would like to spar with him. Boromir stands, laughing, and says that it's been far too long since he's had a good fight. Soon enough, the two of them fill the clearing with the clashing of their swords; cheers from the hobbits, Gimli, and Kíli spur them on enthusiastically.

Aragorn has only rarely seen dual wielders—such ambidextrous prowess is difficult to master, he knows, and men rarely bother with it—but Fíli acts as if both swords are extensions of his very being—spins and stabs and parries like it is second nature.

(He wonders suddenly how the two of them were ever felled in battle—how many orcs were killed by their flashing swords and their feral attacks before they were struck down…especially if they stood protecting their fallen king. He wonders how terrible that battle must have been, that these two energetic, talented warriors were killed when they fought with everything they had to protect their family.)

The fight goes on for several long minutes, both fighters panting with exertion—Boromir is clearly unaccustomed to fighting someone so small, while it seems to be second nature for Fíli to aim up, rather than straight through—before the dwarf finally gets the upper hand, disarming Boromir with a flick of one wrist and bringing his other sword to rest inches from the man's neck.

"Yield?" he asks, grinning even as sweat drips from his brow into his eyes.

"Yield," Boromir agrees, laughing, and ducks to the side, picking up his fallen sword and sheathing it before offering Fíli his hand. "That was some impressive footwork, Master Dwarf. Many in my father's guard could learn from you."

"Don't let Dwalin hear him say that," Kíli calls from the side, his face splitting into a huge grin. "He'll just cuff us both 'round the ears and say we've got an extra hour of training to deflate our big, stupid heads."

Fíli laughs loudly, nodding along and shaking Boromir's hand before collapsing next to his brother. "You're not so bad yourself," he says to Boromir, nodding in appreciation. "If I weren't so accustomed to sparring with people taller than me, I may have been in trouble." Here, he elbows Kíli (for the younger is taller by several inches) and laughs heartily.

"You smell terrible," Kíli complains, wrinkling his nose and pushing his brother away playfully. "Go take a dip in the stream before you…"

Somehow, their banter devolves into a wrestling match; the two of them roll around on the ground, Fíli throwing his weight around easily while Kíli attempts with some success to overwhelm his brother with his longer limbs. Merry and Pippin are laughing heartily as they look on—and, if Aragorn isn't mistaken, they're mentally cataloging different tricks to try in the future. Even Frodo and Sam look amused as they sit near the fire, Frodo huddled into his cloak as usual, his eyes dark-ringed and haunted as he watches his uncle's long-dead friends.

The evening is relaxed—or, at least, as relaxed as the group can be, camping in untracked territory that is more than likely crawling with orcs. Aragorn is not weary, so after supper, he joins Legolas on watch, seating himself near-silently next to him with a tight smile, listening to the crackle of the fire and the laughter of the dwarves and hobbits behind them.

But neither of them say anything for the rest of the night.

.

.

The next day passes much the same; they are nearing Moria, Aragorn knows, and while the dwarves and hobbits are growing more excited by the mile, Legolas and Gandalf are clearly reluctant to join in the lively conversations. The elf has a deep crease in his brow as he looks south, toward the gates—Gandalf broods beneath the brim of his hat, clutching his staff with a white-knuckled grip and muttering to himself, occasionally sending unreadable glances toward the dwarves at the back of the group.

Aragorn wishes he could share the young ones' optimism, but he knows that if Gandalf himself is worried, then there must be something wrong. The wizard's lips tighten with every mention of the dwarves within the mountain, and Aragorn quickly realizes—"You do not think we will meet their kin in the mines." He says it in an undertone, glancing sideways at the wizard as they walk at the head of the company.

Gandalf only looks at him for several long moments before saying, "For all of our sakes, I hope I am wrong," and will say no more on the matter.

.

.

That night—a day's travel from the gates—Gandalf has disappeared into the shadows as usual, his face creased in thought and speaking in a strange language under his breath, lost to his own thoughts. The others think nothing of it, beginning preparations for dinner and laying out bedrolls, chattering animatedly about the great feasts they will be treated to the next day.

Aragorn and Legolas stand at the outskirts of the camp, saying nothing but understanding each other all the same. They are _scared,_ even more so because the others do not feel the same way. The others are so assured in their belief that they will find dwarves in the mountain, alive and well, and yet…

"Aragorn! Come and have some supper!" Gimli calls, and Aragorn thinks he's never heard the dwarf sound so happy in all these weeks of travel. "Gandalf won't come back any faster if you stare at the trees!"

Fíli and Kíli laugh heartily as Aragorn slowly approaches the fire. He can't help but notice, though, the way they have their weapons close at hand, the way their eyes dart constantly around the trees surrounding them, as if searching for enemies.

They seem to have slowly come to—if not trust—at least accept the presence of Legolas, so Aragorn is not sure what they are so afraid of. After all, if they are of the belief that their cousin has reclaimed the mines, they would be well within the dwarves' territory by this point. Why…

Kíli is jumpy despite his hearty laughs; Fíli's hand jerks often toward his brother despite his easy smiles. _Fear for each other, _Aragorn realizes suddenly. The tales of their own deaths, of their king's—they were told scarce days ago, and such things are not easily overcome.

Aragorn can see the protectiveness in the elder's eyes, the twitchiness of the younger's neck as he convulsively checks for his brother's presence. He hopes so strongly that they will find safety and kin in the mountain—that their group will be welcomed with open arms and tears of joy at the sight of long-lost cousins. He hopes that the two of them will soon be sent back to their own time to change the course of history—he hopes…

(He hopes that everything his jaded mind fears will never come to pass.)

The dwarves appear young, yet their mannerisms often speak of age beyond their years. Aragorn knows the stories of the wandering dwarves of Erebor—heard of starvation and too much death and despair of ever finding a homeland again. He knows they would have grown up in such a world, and knows they are not so innocent as they would have others believe.

(He remembers the utter terror—the unfailing resolve—the stiff backs and keen eyes and sure hands of the dwarves they met upon the path. Those were not the bearings of creatures innocent of the ways of the world, no matter their youthful features.)

He realizes, with a jolt of discomfort, that he has misjudged these two. They are from a different time—a strange time, one he scarcely remembers through hazy memories and others' tales—where the greatest line of dwarves was brought low, where kings were common folk and Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór (of the elder—_dead_—line of Durin the Deathless) sacrificed everything to give his people their rightful home.

Fíli and Kíli are not innocent of the horrors their ancestors faced. They are young, yes, and have likely never seen true warfare themselves, but they have seen death and battle and fear, so much more than anyone their age should.

He hopes that, at the very least, the battle looming on their horizon will not be as devastating for them as it is fated to be…

Because he would hate to see that last glimmer of innocence—of hope and wonder and happiness for an assured bright future—flicker out of existence for good.

.

.

It's the next morning that Gandalf approaches Fíli and Kíli, his hat pulled low over his eyes as he carries two vials of a murky-looking draught. Everyone stops their morning preparations as they realize what this must be—that after more than three days of work, the wizard has finally produced a counter-measure to whatever spell has brought them here.

Aragorn feels immeasurable relief, that now the dwarves will not be accompanying them to Moria; surely, they want to return to their own time as soon as possible? They have no reason to delay, especially if they plan to change what happens so that the Fellowship will never exist at all—

(And they won't enter Moria when, more than likely, what they are expecting to find will not greet them—)

Gandalf extends one hand to each dwarf, and they take the vials slowly, considering them for a moment before turning to each other. After only a second's hesitation, they stow the potions in inner pockets of their coats and continue helping break camp, ignoring Gandalf's gaze at their backs.

"I would suggest you two drink those now, before we begin moving again," the wizard says at length, his voice hard, brooking no argument.

Gimli exhales loudly, his mouth firmly set, and Fíli does not turn as he replies, "We will return once we have passed through Moria. I would not rob Balin and the others of the chance to see us again after so many years."

Gandalf's glare turns harder, thumping his staff against the ground as he stands straighter. "Don't be foolish. Traveling with us through Moria will do neither you nor your cousin any favors. The faster you return to your proper time, the faster you can set things to rights before everything turns sour for your Company."

Kíli flinches at the obvious implications behind that statement but says nothing as his brother finally rounds on Gandalf. Aragorn, again, can easily sense the nobility in the set of his shoulders, in his rod-straight back and his impressive glower as he manages to stare down the much taller wizard. "Were we in their positions, we would want to see our dead friends, even if it were only for a short time. We have made our decision, Gandalf—do not attempt to dissuade us."

"You are not thinking rationally," Gandalf says, and his eyes flash with something unreadable as he bears down on the dwarf. "You have inherited your uncle's stubbornness, Fíli, and I do not think it is for the better. Do not blind yourself—"

"We are not leaving until we see Balin and the others," Fíli thunders, his face turning dark, and Pippin actually takes a step back at his tone. "We will drink your draught once we stand upon the fields of Azanulbizar, and not a moment before."

There is a definite finality to his tone, and he turns sharply on his heel to step back toward his brother. Gandalf stares after him, a very ugly look on his face, before shaking his head and turning toward Aragorn and Legolas, standing to one side.

"If things are as we fear in the mines," he says in a near-silent undertone, "we must force them to drink. None of the others will listen to reason, but if the orcs have overrun the mountain, they have to get out."

"Understood," Aragorn says just as quietly, and Legolas nods his assent. The elf's keen eyes follow the younger dwarves as they fall into step with Gimli, leading the way from the clearing. The two of them frown deeply at Gandalf but say nothing, and Aragorn can see the frustration on the old wizard's face, hears him exhale noisily and impatiently.

"And here I thought I was rid of the stubbornness of dwarves…" he shakes his head before straightening his robes, nodding sharply to Aragorn and Legolas as they follow the hobbits and Boromir out of the clearing.


	5. V

**V.**

The gates of Moria are magnificent.

Aragorn doesn't think he can come up with another word for it, as the eleven of them make themselves comfortable and Gandalf attempts to riddle out the password. The lake behind them is dark and silent and vaguely foreboding, but the great doors—alight with ancient runes—are truly beautiful, and he thinks he understands, now, the dwarves' desire to reclaim their ancient kingdom.

Fíli, Kíli, and Gimli are nearly vibrating with excitement; they're talking rather loudly amongst themselves, their faces split into huge grins, apparently taking bets as to which of their companions will have the most spectacular response to their arrival. "Ori will faint," Kíli says with certainty, nodding quickly. "No doubt of that. Scared as a mouse, he is—I wouldn't doubt—"

"You forget, cousin, that it's been eighty years," Gimli cuts him off, shaking his head with a smug smile. "Ori's grown into himself—head of Erebor's library before Balin dragged him off as official scribe for the expedition—and Dwalin trained him properly with a hammer. I'd say he'd give _you_ a good fight, Fíli—"

The blond snorts incredulously, shaking his head. "_Ori?_ I don't believe it—he's never been a warrior. The best scribe in Ered Luin, maybe, but—"

"I want to see _Óin's _face," Kíli says abruptly, his face lighting up with a mischievous smile as the other two turn to him expectantly. Aragorn thinks he hears something behind him, in the water, but sees nothing when he turns to check. Nevertheless, he stands slowly, resolving to tell the dwarves to keep their voices down in case any less-than-savory creatures still roam the outer halls. "How's his hearing been, Gimli—does he still use that damned trumpet, or—?"

"Aye, got a new one once the forges were fired up again," Gimli nods, laughing along. "Great and gilded it is—wouldn't stop showing it off to anyone who'd listen. I think Da was ready to smash it himself, just to shut him up—"

Just as Aragorn comes up to them, draws breath to tell them to keep their voices down, Gandalf makes a soft exclamation behind him—_mellon—_and then there is the deafening noise of the gates of Moria opening. The four of them look up abruptly, eyes wide, to take in Frodo and Gandalf looking pleased with themselves, gesturing for the group to make their way inside.

Before Aragorn can usher the dwarves in front of him, though, there is an almighty _crash_ from the lake behind them—and Frodo is flying through the air in the clutches of an enormous tentacle, his screams reverberating horribly around the cavern.

The rest of the Fellowship jump into action instantly—Kíli and Legolas have their bows drawn, trying to get a clear shot at the monster without endangering the hobbit's life—Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, and Fíli hack at any part of it that comes within reach. Gandalf is roaring some sort of spell as he holds the other hobbits back—

The monster retreats beneath the waves, and there are a few moments of total silence; Aragorn's heart is pounding, his breath coming quickly as he scans the dark waters before him for any sign of Frodo—if they have lost him, if—

And then the head of the monster breaks the surface, bearing down on them like something straight out of the pits of Hell—

But Legolas and Kíli take the chance offered to them, and within moments there are several arrows embedded in the creature's eyes.

The creature roars, enraged, and then Frodo is flying through the air again, toward the shore; Kíli drops his bow without thought, catching the hobbit and cushioning his fall with his own body. Fíli rushes toward them, picking up his brother's weapon and helping the two of them to their feet, shoving them before him as the rest of the Fellowship makes for the gates.

The creature pursues them, clawing its way to the shore and lumbering after them with a great scream of fury, but they are through—and when it tries to follow, it destroys the gates—and the resulting crash is deafening as the rock comes crashing down upon its head.

Then, only silence.

Nobody says anything for several seconds, all trying to catch their breaths and get their bearings in the darkness. "That must have attracted _someone,_" Fíli mutters to himself, his head turning this way and that as he tries to listen, to see. "Guards, or something—"

Gandalf hears the unspoken plea, and sighs heavily before coaxing light into his staff, casting its gaze across the ground in great sweeps as they take in their surroundings.

The entrance hall is silent as the grave, and there doesn't seem to be anyone coming to investigate the crash. "Balin?" Kíli tries loudly, his eyes wide and the ghost of a hope still visible on his shadowed face. "Óin? Ori?"

But then Legolas, wandering the edges of the hall, gasps loudly—Boromir, not far behind, utters a vile curse that has everyone turning in alarm—

They are looking down upon a corpse, run through with arrows, its long-decayed jaw open in an eternal scream.

Aragorn doesn't even see Gimli move—one moment, the dwarf is back by Gandalf, and the next, he is pushing Legolas aside, falling to his knees beside the corpse with a terrible cry. The wizard hurries over, lifting his staff high—and Aragorn almost wishes he didn't.

The edges of the hall are a tomb, full of discarded weapons and broken bodies and—

Fíli's cry is so strangled that Aragorn barely recognizes it as his, and his grip on Kíli's arm looks painful as the two of them rush forward, faces pale and horrified as they take in the carnage. Not all of the weapons are of dwarven craft, Aragorn can see that easily; not all of the skeletons are the thick-boned ones of dwarves—

"Orcs," Gandalf says, his voice heavy with despair, but the three dwarves do not even seem to hear him. Fíli and Kíli's expressions are masks of agony, staring around at the remains of their kin, and suddenly, Kíli turns to one side, retching violently in the echoing silence of the hall.

"Maybe—there have to be some still alive," Fíli chokes out, his head whipping around wildly in the gloom, as if expecting dwarves to step out from behind a pillar. "Gimli said they were doing well, right? Maybe—"

But Gimli's fists are clenching, white-knuckled, and Aragorn looks again at the bodies; it has been decades since these creatures died. If there were any survivors, even if some escaped the destruction caused by the orcs—

If they got out, they would have returned to Erebor…and if they stayed in the mountain, they have surely starved to death by now.

But the young dwarves seem beyond reason; Kíli's hands are shaking violently, his face bloodless as his gaze locks on the empty eye sockets of his long-dead kin. Aragorn moves abruptly, shaking the dwarf's shoulder and saying in a tense voice, "We have to move. There may yet be orcs in your cousin's halls."

Kíli looks up at him, his eyes wide and pained, and the _horror _Aragorn sees there almost physically strikes him. "We must go. If we are to find any survivors, they will be deeper within the mountain."

The thought (hopeless as it might be, for Aragorn knows they will find no living dwarves here) seems to snap Kíli out of his trance. His face regains none of its color, though, and one hand grasps his brother's in a crushing grip even as his other holds his bow in trembling fingers.

"Gimli! We must move," Gandalf says sharply, for the older dwarf is still and silent, on his knees before the bodies; and it is several seconds later when he finally stands, his face as pale as Kíli's, his axe drawn and held defensively in front of him as he follows the rest of them through the hall.

Aragorn thinks they should stop, should force Fíli and Kíli to drink their draughts before they are inevitably attacked. It will be useless, though, not when they think there is still hope of dwarves in the mountain—and Aragorn knows that such tension as it would cause would do more harm than good at this point. He resigns himself to hoping that they receive a reprieve where the dwarves can be convinced to drink—or, impossibly, that they will cross the mountain without incident, and come out unharmed on the fields of Dimrill Dale.

The group walks in a defensive formation: Gandalf leading the way, and the rest ringed protectively around the tense hobbits. Aragorn is endlessly thankful that Pippin is not foolish enough to try and say anything…both because there may still be creatures lurking in these halls, and because he's not sure any of the dwarves would take kindly to any sort of conversation. Fíli's jaw is clenched so tightly that Aragorn's surprised he hasn't cracked any teeth; his warhammer is clenched tight in one hand even as the other still holds tight to his brother. Gimli's steps are stiff and measured, and his gaze flits around the halls, never still as he checks for threats, checks on his friends, ensures that he misses nothing that may happen around them.

But these halls are still and silent—_too_ much so, and Aragorn feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as dust particles float through the air. This place has been abandoned for so long, clearly, even as he sees all three dwarves vehemently denying it to themselves. They cling to some last shred of hope that perhaps that was just one guard, one small, brave group that gave their lives to save the rest…

(It is a foolish hope, but Aragorn does not have the heart to tell them so.)

.

.

Kíli feels numb as they wander blindly through the halls of Khazad-dûm.

The stone here is different than he has ever felt before, even when they passed under the Misty Mountains with the Company. Here, it feels warm and inviting, rich and _safe_…and he understands a little better, he thinks, why so many campaigns have been launched to reclaim this kingdom.

The mountain is singing songs that he has never heard before, that he cannot understand; most of it, surely, is of mithril—the priceless metal he has only seen glimpses of, in Thorin's hair beads and a few small keepsakes from Erebor. Gold, he has heard rarely, and he sometimes catches glimpses of it here, too.

The songs he is used to hearing in Ered Luin—copper (a whine, a shrill song he has never been able to love) and iron (sturdy and strong, a war song, a marching song, a song that taught him to fight and to survive)—they are absent here. Such lowly metals are surely not worthy of a place in such a hallowed kingdom, the first home of his ancestors—

He listens—oh, how he listens!—but he cannot understand the songs of Durin's kingdom, cannot discern why the mithril trills and the gold bellows and the stone itself sings softly, nearly indiscernible but creating a low hum in the back of his mind, ever-present and beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.

(Does it call him to the heart of the mountain? Does it warn him away? He does not know.)

He is an heir of the elder line of Durin and yet he cannot understand the mountain's call, and he feels ashamed for it. He looks to his brother and to his cousin but finds no comfort in their faces; Fíli stares straight ahead as they walk, his jaw clenched tightly and his face twisted as if he is going to be sick. Gimli is twitchy, jerking around at every echo and constantly checking on the others, checking if they are still alive and well…

This is all so _so_ wrong, and Kíli feels his own terror and the indecipherable songs of the mountain and the tension thick in the air consolidate around him until it is difficult to breathe. _He has to keep going._ Thorin would not allow him a moment to rest; Thorin would yell at him for his weakness; Thorin would despair of calling him his heir (second though he may be), if he cannot handle even _this_—

But Thorin isn't here (_and never will be)_, and his brother's hand is trembling as their fingers twine even tighter together, and Gandalf is more tense—_scared,_ Kíli would say, if he did not know better—than he has ever been in Kíli's presence, and he knows there is something so horribly wrong here.

Balin has to be alive. He _has_ to be. He and Óin and Ori have to be in the depths of the mountain _somewhere;_ they can't have been killed by the orcs that slaughtered the guard at the gates; they have to be _alive—_

(But they don't, his traitorous mind reminds him—because even _he_ is not alive, in this time—he and his brother and his uncle are rotting skeletons in the depths of Erebor; they are corpses not so unlike the ones that earlier he could not bear to look upon—)

Nobody speaks for long hours in the mountain, and Kíli knows it is getting late when Gandalf finally stops on a larger ledge, announcing that they will rest here for a few hours before continuing on through the mountain. Kíli collapses to the ground without a second thought, burying his head in his arms. He senses Fíli sit heavily next to him, feels a warm, familiar arm wrap around his shoulders.

He should feel comforted by his brother's presence. He always has, in the past—with Fíli at his side, everything would be all right; everything would…

But even as he denies it to himself, he knows that nothing beneath this once-glorious mountain is all right, even in the smallest degree. (He ignores the small part of his mind that tells him to drink Gandalf's potion, escape the horrors waiting for them as they venture further in.)

If Balin and the others still live (and they do, because they _must_), he owes it to them to meet them one last time, before they are lost to this time forever. And if they do not…

If they do not—and Kíli wrestles with his own thoughts, because the odds are overwhelming but he is young and hopeful and nothing if not headstrong, and so he has to believe in his friends—they must, at the very least, pay their respects to the dead.

(They're not dead. They're _not._)

He and Fíli say nothing to each other for these long hours, except for the elder to make some half-hearted suggestions of sleep. Kíli knows he will never be able to rest, and Fíli surely knows this too, but this weary dread settling deep in their bones seems to scream at them to do just that.

But the elf's eyes are dark and ever watchful; Gandalf and Frodo are speaking lowly to each other, staring out into the abyss of the mines; Gimli and Aragorn and Boromir sit near the other three hobbits, hands grasping weapons tightly and backs rod-straight, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

Kíli knows he is young. He knows he is untested, by his kin's standards, that his skill with a blade does not equal his brother's. But he also knows that there are four helpless hobbits here that must be protected, an empty—dangerous—kingdom that should be thrumming with kin and friends and life, and so he knows that he must do all he can to help this company through the mountain alive.

Even if his friends are dead.

(They're _not.)_

None of them sleep during the few hours they spend here; Pippin is listing against his cousin's shoulder but clearly doing his best to stay alert, and Sam has ventured to sit with Frodo and Gandalf instead, though the two of them have long since fallen into silence. Eventually, Gandalf stands up with a soft breath of surprise, announcing that he knows the way.

Does he know the way out, or to the dwarves yet living in the mountain? Kíli does not know, and he does not think he has the courage to ask.

But he stands nevertheless, grasping his bow and checking his quiver, glancing over to see Fíli hefting his hammer and turning to give Kíli a strained smile as they move on.

The group moves as silently as eleven can, speaking only to ascertain the way. Eventually—_finally_, because even though Kíli is a dwarf (born and raised to live beneath mountains), these halls have seemed too suffocating, with their burnt-out torches and haunting songs—Gandalf leads them into a more open area, letting out a long breath before announcing, "Behold: the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf."

He casts more light around the chamber, and Kíli feels his breath catch in his throat even as Fíli makes an amazed sound beside him. This hall—this is grander than anything he has ever known. The ceiling vaults higher than he can see; the pillars are countless and intricately carved and laced through with what can only be mithril and copious amounts of gold.

This… The Fellowship has started moving again, and Fíli pulls gently on his arm, but Kíli doesn't think he can tear his gaze from the beautiful architecture around him. No dwarf in living memory has walked these halls—even Thrór (and his father and _his_ father) were born centuries after the kingdom was lost. It has been more than a millennium since it has been properly inhabited, and yet…

He is torn from his awestruck thoughts by a strangled scream from Gimli, and he whips around to see his cousin sprinting toward a side chamber, bathed in sunlight.

A noble's quarters, then, Kíli thinks wildly, hurrying after his friend with an arrow drawn, or—

He catches sigh of the stone sepulcher in the center of the room, hears a similar cry rip from his own throat, and runs in after Gimli, heedless of Gandalf's calls from behind them.

Gimli is on his knees before the tomb, his axe lying uselessly beside him, and he heaves great sobs with his head bowed. Kíli rushes forward, hears his brother's heavy boots close behind him, and catches sight of the runes on the tomb:

_Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria_

He doesn't hear the scream that leaves his throat; he doesn't feel the unforgiving stone against his knees as he collapses next to Gimli. He doesn't notice the decomposed corpses or the unbearable stench of decay overwhelming the room, doesn't notice the way Fíli grasps his shoulder in horror as he attempts to keep his balance—

Balin is dead, then, and the whole of Khazad-dûm surely fell with him.

The rest of the Fellowship rushes in behind them, for there is much chattering and sounds of horror at the bodies contained here, but it is all white noise to Kíli. _Balin is dead. Balin is dead._

Balin is dead.

Balin—the kindly old dwarf who taught him his letters, who forced him to sit through dull lectures of dwarven history that he dreaded every week, who was all but a grandfather to him, who good-naturedly allowed him to braid his beard as a dwarfling and wore the crooked plaits proudly for the rest of the day—

_Balin is dead,_ and the concept is so utterly foreign to him that all Kíli is able to do is stare blankly at the runes, swirling before his eyes like some sick mockery of their language—

He is snapped abruptly out of his thoughts as Gandalf leans down near him, pulling a musty, bloodstained book from the clutches of one of the bodies, and begins to read. "They have taken the bridge and the second hall." Kíli looks around with bleary eyes, drawn to Gandalf's heavy voice, and listens with unfocused attention to the account of his kin's last hours. "We have barred the gates…but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes."

The others shift restlessly around him; he hears Legolas whispering something, at the edges of his hearing, but Kíli does not care anymore.

_Balin is dead._

"Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out; a shadow moves in the dark."

Something about the corpse at Gandalf's feet catches Kíli's deadening attention, and he stares down to look more carefully at the dwarf.

(He knows, somewhere, in the corner of his mind, that these bodies are far beyond recognition. The armor is rusted and rent; the skin and hair are long gone…)

Except this body—this dwarf—wears no armor; he is wrapped only in decaying wools, destroyed cloth, a thick, looped scarf that looks far too much like—

A strangled cry leaves his throat, and Fíli jerks, looking around in alarm. But Kíli has eyes only for the dead dwarf mere feet from him, resting against the front of Balin's tomb with arrows and a rusted scimitar embedded in his body, a destroyed warhammer laying near one hand.

_Gods above, he's looking at Ori, that's Ori's coat that's Ori's body Ori is dead too Ori died here Ori the little scribe who was never made for war, Ori his friend scarce decades older than him, Ori Ori ORI—_

"We cannot get out," Gandalf's voice echoes through the quiet room, dark and solemn, but Kíli scarcely hears him, his head ringing with the knowledge that Ori is dead _Ori is dead ORI IS DEAD—_

"They are coming."

Kíli's breath is coming too fast; his brain isn't getting enough oxygen and his chest is tight and his eyes are watering despite every vehement denial he's ever made that _dwarven princes don't cry_—Ori is dead and Balin is dead, that is his friend's body and his cousin's tomb and _they are dead, they died in the mines of Moria with no one left to help them—_

Fíli is grasping at his shoulders, yelling mere inches from his face, but Kíli cannot even muster the attention to understand what his brother is saying. He looks toward Fíli's eyes but cannot focus on them, knows there is some great commotion behind Gandalf, where Pippin stands with the wizard's hat and staff, but none of that is important anymore.

Khazad-dûm is no glorious kingdom; the mithril and gold and stone singing through the walls, searing through his veins, feel like poison and hellfire within and around him until he is sure he is going to die, sure he is going to—

"_Kíli!"_ Gandalf's deep, booming voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts and causes his head to jerk up in alarm, staring at the wizard and then at his brother. Fíli's eyes are wide and terrified and filling with tears, just like his, but there is some semblance of control there (Fíli's the elder, the stronger, the _better_ of the two), and even though he surely recognizes Ori's corpse as well—because his gaze flickers down to it every few seconds, pain burning across his face in flashes near-unbearable to witness—he is able to hold himself together enough to help Kíli to his feet, aware enough to heft his hammer when a great _boom_ echoes through from beyond the open doorway.

Aragorn and Legolas move quickly to close the doors, bar the opening with anything they can find as the drumming _(drums, drums in the deep)_ grows ever louder in Kíli's ears. The hobbits are huddling against Balin's tomb, and Boromir stands before them with his sword drawn; Aragorn and Legolas have their bows at the ready, aimed toward the doors—

_(We cannot get out…they are coming.)_

He realizes he should be helping, as pointless as this last stand is; he lifts his bow, wills his arms to hold steady and his vision to clear, and aims for the steadily-growing cracks in the wood.

The orcs' jeers and war cries pass through to them, along with the roaring of some great beast—"They have a cave troll," Boromir says despairingly, only raising his sword higher and clearly feeling the same inevitability that Kíli does. They will not get out of here, of that he is certain. If an entire army of dwarves was overcome by these monsters, then eleven creatures in a ragtag group have no chance—

"Fíli, Kíli!" That is Gimli's voice, a hushed, desperate whisper, and suddenly his cousin is in front of him, pushing the arrow aside. "You must drink that draught, do it now—"

"What?" Kíli asks incredulously, attempting to reposition his bow even as Gimli stubbornly holds it down and away. "We can't—we can't just _leave_ you here—"

(They can't run away from battle, even if it will be the end of them, because dwarves are nothing if not stubborn and loyal and Gimli has already lost too much—there are tears streaming down his cheeks to match Kíli's, and the younger would not dare make his cousin lose the two of them all over again, not now—)

"You must," Gimli says, his eyes steely as he reaches unceremoniously into Kíli's coat, searching quickly for the draught and pulling it out when he finds it. "Return to your time—you will fix it, you will make it so this will never happen at all—"

"But you—"

Fíli looks just as terrified at the prospect as Kíli feels, staring incredulously at Gimli as their cousin digs up his draught as well, thrusting it into his hands roughly. "Don't worry about us," Gimli says gruffly, blinking back his tears, jerking but holding eye contact with Kíli as Legolas fires an arrow through the growing cracks. "We'll be fine. Just don't be idiots—don't get yourselves killed in that damn battle, you hear me? Or else I'll kill you myself."

Kíli chokes out something between a laugh and a sob; Gimli reaches over roughly and uncorks the vial when Kíli shows no sign of doing so himself, shoving it back into his grasp and giving him an impressive glower. "I—"

"Gimli," Aragorn says, his voice strained, and Kíli can see that the doors are at their breaking point, that they have mere seconds before the orcs are upon them.

(They truly do not have any other option.)

So he bites back a sob, claps Gimli on the shoulder before his cousin turns to face down the enemy, and feels Fíli grab his sleeve before downing the potion in one go.

The last thing he hears is the deafening roars of the troll, the screeching of countless orcs, and the battle cries of the Fellowship before everything goes black.


	6. VI

**VI.**

Thorin is woken early that morning by someone's strong grip on his shoulder.

He's up like a shot, Orcrist in hand, narrowly missing Bofur as the other dwarf steps back quickly. "What is it?" he asks, voice hoarse from sleep, but his mind is sharp as his eyes spin around their camp. It's barely dawn, and only Bofur and Bombur are up and about; the former, Thorin remembers, had third watch, while the latter is preparing breakfast for the Company.

"I was—I was doing a quick headcount, seeing as there aren't any threats in the area," Bofur says, nodding around at the dwarves scattered at various distances from the fire. "And—the lads aren't here."

"_What?"_

Surely the two of them have just gone to relieve themselves and will be back in a moment? Thorin glances to where their bedrolls are laid out, several paces from the fire; the blankets are done up as if someone were lying there, but sure enough, Fíli and Kíli are not there.

And, most damning, their weapons are missing as well.

"When did you notice?" he asks, lowering but not sheathing his sword as he steps quickly toward the empty bedrolls. There must be a logical explanation for this—but he can come up with nothing, especially when they are this close to Mirkwood. Surely, despite how rash his nephews can be at times, they have enough sense not to run off by themselves into the trees.

"Near half an hour ago," Bofur says, hurrying to keep up with Thorin as he runs the perimeter. "I thought they might have just gone off to water some trees, but none of their weapons are here, so—"

"Aye," Thorin says, his brow furrowed, and something like worry unfurls uncomfortably in his gut. He's always worried for Fíli and Kíli in dangerous situations—after all, he all but raised them, and he knows he would rather die than return to Dís and have to tell her that her sons were slain. But they are grown dwarves (if rather young compared to the rest), and they have long since been able to take care of themselves.

So _where are they now?_

"Did you notice anything strange during your watch?" he asks Bofur quickly, his gaze spanning the Company quickly before settling on Gandalf. He knows that the wizard rarely sleeps, that he often knows more than he lets on; if Bofur—and Balin and Nori, first and second watch—don't have any information for him—

"Nothing at all. Quiet as a mouse," Bofur says, shrugging helplessly and looking equal parts apologetic and worried. "If they left the camp, I reckon it would have been before my watch started, not that that's any help to you, I suppose—"

Thorin is only half-listening as he strides purposefully toward the wizard. Radagast is sitting a few paces away, humming quietly to himself and petting one of his giant rabbits as he rummages through his pockets for something. "Gandalf," Thorin says in an undertone, though his voice is no less thunderous, "do you know where my nephews are?"

"Hmm?" Gandalf lifts his chin from its position on his chest, peering up at Thorin for a moment with one eyebrow raised. "Are they not asleep?"

"Their bedrolls are empty," Thorin says tersely, his patience already stretched thin, "and their weapons are gone."

Gandalf frowns deeply before levering himself up with his staff, casting a cursory glance across the camp before returning his attention to Thorin. "I did not see them leave, nor did I see anyone approach during the night," he says, and if Thorin isn't mistaken, there is something like worry in the wizard's gaze as well. "Radagast, did you notice anything—?"

But the other wizard isn't paying them the slightest bit of attention; there is a deep frown on his face as he continues searching through his pockets, clearly missing something as animal droppings and scraps of parchment are thrown every which way in his haste. "Not good, not good," he's muttering to himself, and his rabbits stand at attention, staring at him as if awaiting orders to help him search.

Thorin has always had little patience for the mad wizard, and now, he has even less; he only spins on his heel with a huff, bee-lining for Nori's bedroll…shaking him awake harshly and receiving a knife to the throat for his efforts.

"Nori," Thorin says, backing up a step and allowing the dwarf to sit up properly. "Did you notice anything strange during your watch?"

"No," he says bluntly, frowning at Thorin before standing up, tucking his knife away again. "What's this about?"

"Fíli and Kíli are missing," Bofur explains hastily as Thorin turns away with a huff, heading for Balin instead. "Took their weapons, and all. Nobody knows where they went."

Soon, the entire camp is roused and in something of an uproar. Balin, too, had noticed nothing amiss during his watch—and even if Thorin didn't trust Bofur and Nori as much as he did, he knows Balin would never miss something like this. Everyone has soon abandoned any idea of breakfast as they realize that they honestly have no idea where Fíli and Kíli are; even Gandalf looks truly concerned as he scans the edges of the forest.

"They're idiots, but they're not stupid enough to run off on their own," Dwalin says, pacing the edges of the camp nervously with axes in hand. "I can't see them just—"

"You're sure you didn't see anything odd?" Dori is asking Gandalf, wringing his hands and looking very worried as he casts his gaze around again, as if expecting them to simply reappear from behind a tree. "Nothing—"

"I am quite sure, Master Dwarf," Gandalf says, and Thorin can't tell whether it's irritation or growing alarm in the wizard's voice. "This was a night just like any other we have seen."

"But then—"

Dori is cut off abruptly by a wail from Radagast that has half the camp jumping to battle stances, weapons drawn and eyes seeking out any sort of danger. "What is it?" Gandalf asks, turning sharply and raising his staff.

"It's gone!"

"What is gone?" Gandalf says, relaxing slightly as he realizes there is no immediate threat and approaches his colleague.

"Oh, one of the potions I've been working on," he says, looking rather distracted as he glances across the ground. "I was very proud of it, and I know I had it last night, but now it's gone!"

Something niggles at the back of Thorin's mind; once he realizes what it is, he groans loudly and resists the urge to punch something. Surely, Fíli and Kíli would know better than to steal from—

"What was this potion supposed to do, Radagast?" Gandalf asks patiently, though he sends a sharp look back at Thorin. "You see, we've run into a bit of a problem—"

"That's just it, I was never sure! It was just something I've been tinkering with—"

Thorin swears violently, turning away and sheathing his sword. Fíli and Kíli—his heirs, his _nephews,_ who he _knows_ he raised better than this—had the gall to steal from a frankly unstable wizard—

When he finds them again, he's sure the only thing he's going to be able to do is wring their necks.

"What are we going to do?" Bilbo asks into the heavy silence that has fallen over the camp; his eyes are wide as every head turns toward him. "We have to find them—Gandalf, you can't leave before—"

"I am not so heartless as to abandon you now," Gandalf says with an indignant huff, thumping his staff on the ground before turning to the rest of the Company. "You have my word that we will not leave until we discover where they have gone, though I'll knock their heads together for their stupidity. Now, Radagast—"

All Thorin can think, as Gandalf attempts to get more information about this potion from his friend, is that if the wizard wants to wallop his nephews, he'll have to get in line.

.

.

It's several hours later that Gandalf returns to the rest of the Company, his mouth set in a grim line. Thorin is on his feet in moments; Balin had to convince him—stopping _just_ short of threats—to stay in the camp rather than go off on his own to search. After all, he reasoned, if this is truly the product of magic, the two of them may well be beyond their reach right now. They will have to rely on the wizards' help to get them back.

Thorin can see the logic behind his cousin's words, but he's certainly not happy about it, and he has made sure everyone in the camp knows it.

"Radagast has only guesses as to what his potion would have done," Gandalf says, preempting anything that might have come out of Thorin's mouth, "but these guesses are usually fairly accurate."

He is silent for several moments, and Thorin growls under his breath, just _daring_ the wizard to stop there—until Gandalf finally continues, "He believes it has something to do with time, though he never figured out the specifics and never got around to testing it. As it stands now—"

"Time?" Nori butts in incredulously, voicing what everyone else is clearly thinking. "How could a _potion_ have anything to do with—"

"Traveling through time, Master Nori," Gandalf says, his voice heavy as he locks eyes with Thorin. "And as Radagast doubts he could duplicate the potion, we are entirely unsure of how to call them back."

Something like panic threatens to overwhelm the anger and worry coursing through Thorin's veins—they're gone, his nephews are _gone,_ and even the wizards don't know how to bring them back—"So what you're telling me," he says after a moment, his voice low and dangerous, "is that my heirs—my _nephews_—are stranded in a different _time_, and even the great _Istari_ are unable to undo their own sorcery?"

He sees, from the corner of his eye, Ori take a step back at his tone, sees Balin step forward, probably ready to restrain him from physically harming the wizard. Thorin realizes he must be a sight: back rigid, fists clenched reflexively around thin air but itching to draw his sword, managing to glare down Gandalf even as the wizard towers over him. But he doesn't particularly care right now—if Fíli and Kíli were stranded in a different place, he would fight through hellfire and brimstone to retrieve them. But in a different _time—_how is he supposed to combat that? How is he supposed to get them back?

He's prepared to do _anything_ to bring them back, to save them from whatever fate Radagast's wizardry and their own foolishness have wrought. He is even, as his traitorous mind has so helpfully informed him these past hours, willing to resort to asking the elves for help; Elrond and Galadriel, he knows, have no small amount of magical power. (He will not ask Thranduil, though—_never_ Thranduil, for he abandoned the dwarves of Erebor once before, and Thorin would not entrust the lives of his nephews to such a hateful creature.) As much as his stubborn dwarven pride—everything he stands for and every principle that has governed his life for these past two centuries—screams at him for even _considering_ such a thing…

His nephews are infinitely more important.

(But first, he's going to wring Gandalf and Radagast dry for being so useless when they were needed most.)

Gandalf seems to be struggling to reply to Thorin's thinly-veiled threats and blatant insults, and both Balin and Bilbo seem ready to step in—but before anything more can happen, there is a quiet—almost indiscernible—_pop_ from behind Thorin, and he whirls around, wondering what else could possibly go wrong today.

And—_Mahal above_—Fíli and Kíli are standing there, bow and hammer in hand, apparently unharmed and only staring, dead ahead, at absolutely nothing.

A great cry comes up from the Company, but Thorin only steps forward quickly, his hand going for his sword, forgetting every threat or punishment or lecture he prepared in these past hours. There is something so _wrong_ in their faces, in the tears streaming down Kíli's cheeks and the way Fíli's free hand has an impossibly tight grip on his brother's sleeve—

Their eyes finally seem to focus after several terrifying moments of blank staring, but the tension in the air does not lessen—especially when Kíli catches sight of Thorin. Rather than looking relieved that they are back where they should be, his younger nephew's face only contorts with grief so palpable it's painful to look upon…and then Kíli is sobbing.

Thorin is there before he realizes he's taken a single step, forgetting Gandalf and Radagast and—indeed—the rest of the Company, intent on finding out what is ailing his nephews. He has not seen Kíli cry in _years_, and not with this much abandon since his father died—after all, it would not do for one of his heirs to be seen as weak to the population of Ered Luin. He has always been proud of his nephews, in this—that despite whatever they are feeling, they put on a strong front for everyone around them, at least until they are within the privacy of their own home.

Now, though, Kíli is sobbing in front of the rest of the Company, and Fíli does not look to be far behind.

Clearly, there is something horribly wrong.

Before he can ask what ails them—what horrific events they have witnessed to put them in such a state—Kíli has flung himself at Thorin, wrapping his arms around him tightly and burying his face into his shoulder. Thorin freezes, even as Fíli stands a step behind with tears threatening to fall from his eyes. (His elder nephew's white-knuckled grip on his hammer has not lessened an inch.)

After several long seconds, during which Kíli does not seem willing to release his grip, Thorin tentatively brings his arms up to embrace him in return, doing his best to imitate Dís' comfort as he rubs Kíli's back. He's always—been terrible at comforting others, has never known, truly, how to seek comfort himself…but how could he possibly deny Kíli such things now?

(Something is so, so wrong, and Thorin feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he tries to understand what could reduce both his brave, stalwart nephews to such a state.)

"Laddie," Balin steps toward Fíli carefully, reaching as if to pry the weapon from his hand…but Fíli jumps terribly at the old dwarf's voice, jerks to face him violently. And when he is staring him in the face—Thorin is astonished to see his features contort into something beyond physical pain. Fíli is the more stoic of his nephews—Kíli has always been a more expressive creature, while the elder has shown promise of being a great king, slow to show emotions yet quick of tongue. But now, looking at Fíli's face, he looks like he is a dwarfling again, and has just learned that his father was slain in battle. Though there are no physical wounds, at least that Thorin can see, his face is twisted horrifically, and the short, harsh breaths he draws do not seem to give him enough air.

Luckily, Balin has the sense to back away quickly, gesturing for Gandalf to come in his stead. The wizard does so quickly, stooping to observe Fíli properly and wrestle the hammer from his grip. Luckily (inexplicably, because Fíli has known Balin since the day he was born), he does not have the same reaction to Gandalf, and willingly goes boneless in the wizard's grasp as Thorin and the others look on worriedly.

He dares not think it, but—have they lost their minds? Is this a side effect of the wizard's unstable, imperfect magic? If—

But Kíli is clearly trying to compose himself, taking deep, shaky breaths against Thorin's shoulder even as his grip on his coat does not loosen; Fíli seems to be coming back to himself, answering Gandalf's questions in a muted undertone, but pointedly avoiding looking anyone in the eye as the wizard sits him down on a fallen tree.

"What happened?" Thorin asks when he doesn't think he can take it anymore, prying Kíli's fingers from the furs as gently as he can and sitting him down next to his brother. "Gandalf said you traveled through time, but he didn't know how to retrieve you…"

He trails off meaningfully, because while he—and the rest of the Company, who are doing a very poor job of pretending to be busy as they eavesdrop—is desperate for answers, he doesn't want to risk shattering whatever fragile peace his nephews have found. Hopefully, soon, they will have pulled themselves together enough to answer his questions properly.

It's several seconds later, but eventually, Fíli gives a diminutive nod, shooting a fleeting glance up at Thorin before returning his attention to his boots. "Where did you go?" Thorin prompts, feeling his patience waning but determined to hold onto it as long as he can. His mind whirls through possibilities—in the past, there are all manner of wars, battles, traumatic events that could cause them to be in such a state. Azanulbizar, Smaug's attack…

But these thoughts are dashed quickly, for while both boys are beyond shaken, there is not a drop of blood on either of them. Fíli is shaking his head now, clearly hesitant, but says nevertheless, "Eighty years…into the future."

Thorin feels his eyes widen even as Gandalf lets out a whoosh of breath, staring at one face and then the other before saying, "And what did you find there?"

Thorin's mind is spinning with questions—surely, he would like to hope that whatever they found in the future—_their_ future, likely—was favorable, but judging by their reactions—

"We…met you," Fíli says slowly, stealing a glance up at Gandalf. "And—Gimli, and several hobbits."

That's not the whole truth, and Thorin knows it—after all, while it might be feasible for Gandalf and Gimli to be together (though why without any other dwarf?), or Gandalf to be in the Shire, there would be no reason for—

"Bilbo…!" Kíli says suddenly, his head snapping up and searching out the terribly confused hobbit, who takes a step back, his hand slipping into his vest pocket.

"You couldn't have met me, eighty years in the future," he says, laughing rather nervously and glancing to Gandalf before continuing, "Hobbits don't live that long—I'll be dead before—"

"You have a ring, right?" Kíli barrels on, a startling intensity in his eyes that makes Bilbo take another step back, nearly running into Dori. "You found a magic ring, under the Misty Mountains—"

"I—I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about!" But Bilbo is a terrible liar, and Gandalf narrows his eyes at the hobbit before standing slowly.

"I think this is something that should not be lied about, Bilbo Baggins," the wizard says, his voice threatening to turn dark, and Bilbo wavers before letting out an enormous breath, pulling his hand from his pocket and unclenching his fist with apparent great difficulty.

Whatever Thorin was expecting to see, this is not it…because all that is in the halfling's hand is a small golden band—unobtrusive by any account. What could possibly—?

He finds himself standing up, meaning to take a step closer to look at the ring, but then he feels two iron grips on his arms, anchoring him in place. He looks down, ready to snap at his nephews, but he's surprised again—both their faces are pale as sheets, and their mouths are set in grim lines as Fíli shakes his head sharply.

"Don't let any one of us near it, Bilbo," he says, and his voice is forcibly steady even as Gandalf steps toward the hobbit.

"Why?" Bilbo asks, clearly nonplussed, though as Gandalf leans down toward his open palm, he convulsively tries to close it against the wizard's gaze. "It's—it's just my ring—"

"No, it's not."

Even Thorin is taken aback by the steel in Fíli's voice, and several in the Company turn to him in confusion. But Gandalf curses under his breath before straightening, finally allowing Bilbo to move; the hobbit quickly stows the ring in his pocket again, sending a wary look to Fíli and Kíli. But Gandalf turns to them with an extremely grave look on his face, looking from one to the other before saying, "Which is it?"

"Sauron's."

Thorin has never seen Gandalf truly shocked, nor has he seen him afraid, but both emotions are clear on the wizard's face as he glances between the two of them again. He's clearly searching for some sort of joke or falsehood, but Thorin can tell that his nephews have never been so serious in their entire lives. There is no hint of laughter in Fíli's eyes, no quirk to Kíli's lips; both are staring at Gandalf with grave expressions, as if willing him to believe them, to understand.

(This future must have been nothing short of hell.)

"You are sure?" Gandalf asks, his face grave, and both of them nod tersely.

"You were traveling to destroy it, in Mordor."

Gandalf's face only grows more grave, his lips pursing for a moment before whirling to face Radagast, who has been standing on the outskirts of the group nervously, looking between Gandalf and the dwarves. "You heard that?" Gandalf asks his friend, his voice tense, and Radagast nods quickly. "Travel to Lothórien—alert Galadriel and Elrond. Dol Guldur must be taken care of as soon as possible, and this ring…" his gaze drifts toward Bilbo, who frowns deeply up at the wizard, "must be destroyed."

Radagast is gone within moments, his rabbits carrying him west across the flatlands, and Gandalf turns back to the dwarves. "Now, Fíli, Kíli, I need to know everything you learned about this in the future…"


	7. VII

**VII.**

They end up staying the night in that same camp, if only because once Gandalf's questions are satisfied, it is nearing dusk already. Kíli is intensely grateful for this small mercy; after everything that has happened to him in the past several hours, he is ready to simply collapse back onto his bedroll and sleep for _days._

(If only he could forget all that he saw, in that future.)

But he should have known that would not be allowed; Thorin has been looking at the both of them with a deep crease in his brow since they arrived, something strangely like worry settling there. Kíli supposes that Thorin _would _be worried, for they have been missing for several hours in this time. (He thanks Mahal that it was not several days, as it was for them, because Gandalf may have left the Company at the entrance to Mirkwood and gone away on his own business—and then any hope of their success would have been doomed.) Still, it's very odd to see so obvious an expression on his uncle's face.

"There is more than you told the wizard." Thorin's blunt voice cuts through his thoughts, causing him to jump slightly and look up. His uncle's face is stern, but he's clearly trying to keep it calm and inviting—and Kíli feels sudden shame at his earlier breakdown, for what must Thorin think of him now? Weak, surely, and stupid—someone not worthy to be of the ruling line of Durin. "What else did you learn? Did Gimli tell you whether we succeed?"

Kíli can't help but flinch at the question, though he knows it's been coming for some time. Thorin doesn't miss it, and his frown deepens as he looks between the two of them. (Kíli still can't bring himself to meet his eyes.) "What is it? What did you find? Surely, we can fix whatever is to go wrong."

"In—in that time, the mountain had been reclaimed," Fíli admits after several moments, and Thorin sucks in a harsh breath even as the others (poorly attempting to be subtle in their eavesdropping) begin chattering quietly amongst themselves. "A man from Laketown killed the dragon, and the dwarves live in the mountain."

"'The dwarves'?" Thorin echoes, not missing the discrepancy in his phrasing—after all, why would he not say 'we'? "Fíli, what went wrong? What are you not telling me?"

Gandalf, sitting several paces away with his pipe, appears not to be listening to the conversation. But his eyes are sharp as he meets Kíli's flitting gaze, and he knows the wizard has likely guessed the answer even before Fíli draws a shaky breath to reply—

"Dáin sat on the throne of Erebor."

There is a pregnant pause as the rest of the Company falls into shocked silence, and Thorin only blinks at them—attempting to process this news, figure out _why _and _how, _trying to decide whether they are tricking him—Kíli cannot tell. But eventually, there is a great uproar—Dwalin and Glóin, apparently, have recovered their senses enough to be outraged, and they take several steps forward, their faces horrified, demanding to know whether Dáin usurped Thorin, whether they need to rend his beard and tear out his tongue and do all manner of horrific things to him—

Fíli's eyes have grown wide, and Kíli knows his brother has lost whatever courage has brought him this far—and so he fists his hands in his trousers, coughing loudly to quiet his cousins, and says with a shaky voice, "Dáin sat on the throne because after the battle, he was the direct heir of Durin's line."

There is more silence, as everyone seems to process this—but slowly, there is a terrified murmur growing throughout the camp, more of their companions getting to their feet as they realize what this means. Fíli's hand has found Kíli's sleeve again, and his grip is growing steadily tighter as the ruckus grows louder. Gandalf bows his head as Thorin stands abruptly, his face murderous, and bellows for silence from the Company.

(Kíli is infinitely grateful when they obey instantly, because Fíli's grip on his arm is becoming painful, and he feels his own heart—already stretched thin from the events of the last several days—threatening to snap.)

"Explain," Thorin says, though clearly the full implications of that statement have not hit him yet; and Kíli has no doubt that he expects to be obeyed—not as their uncle, but as their _king._

"There is an orc army massing," Kíli says, when Fíli does not seem about to reply. "They will attack soon after we reenter the mountain. Last time, we were unprepared, and even though the elves and men fought alongside us and Dáin…"

Thorin's brow furrows deeply at the mention of elves, glaring Kíli down until he feels ready to snap. "Why would we ever ally ourselves with _them?"_

"Because it would have been a slaughter otherwise!" Kíli stands abruptly, dislodging his brother's grip on his arm and glaring down his uncle, nearly eye-to-eye. "It was bad enough as it was—they said it was practically another Azanulbizar, and the loss of life was nearly as terrible!"

Thorin only stares at him another moment, his face inscrutable, but Kíli doesn't stop—doesn't think he _can_ stop, now that the floodgates are opened. "We _have_ to do things differently this time—it will help to not bring the Ring into the mountain, but if we warn Dáin and Thranduil and the men ahead of time, tell them to bring more soldiers—"

"What does my ring have to do with anything?" Bilbo pipes up, looking rather indignant as he takes a step forward, his hand slipping into his pocket again.

Kíli lets out a great breath through his nose, turning to the hobbit with waning patience as he says, "That ring influences people in the worst of ways. Last time, _you_—" he turns back to Thorin with almost a snarl, "nearly brought us to war with the men and elves because you refused to give them the gold they deserved—"

"I would not give _Thranduil_ a single coin from my grandfather's treasure!" Thorin roars, and Gandalf stands, behind Thorin, stepping forward quickly. Kíli sees Thorin's fists clench, as if attempting to restrain himself from striking him, and he wonders with sudden, cold horror whether his uncle is caught in the throes of madness already.

"Would you be so greedy as to throw away our lives?" Fíli asks loudly, getting to his feet to stand beside Kíli. "You would sacrifice everyone in this Company for a few piles of gold?"

Thorin's face darkens. "Of course I would not—"

"That's exactly what happened," Kíli says, and he hears Thorin's jaw click shut in the sudden, horrified silence of the clearing. "You were so distracted by your greed that nobody noticed the orc army until it was nearly too late. And then you _died,_ on that battlefield—Gimli said it was an honorable death, but it was your death nonetheless—"

"So why did Fíli not become king?" he asks abruptly, though his face is suddenly chalk-white and he takes a small step back from the two of them. "Did Dáin take—?"

"Dáin didn't take the throne from anyone," Fíli says, his voice low and his eyes steely. "What else would we have done, Thorin, except defend our wounded king to the death?"

The silence is heavy and suffocating, and Kíli feels the fight draining out of him as Thorin's face falls in horror, as the rest of the Company stares on helplessly. Gandalf's eyes are obscured by the brim of his hat as he bows his head, and even Bilbo looks shaken, shocked into silence, despite the anger he expressed earlier toward them.

"You had no reason to do that," Thorin says finally, and his voice cracks halfway through; his eyes are wide and suspiciously bright, and his balled fists are shaking terribly. "You never should have—"

"We did," Fíli says steadily, looking Thorin in the eye with a great deal of effort. "And we will do it again without question, if we must, but because we know what is coming—"

"What must we do?"

The question is blunt, determined, with no room for negotiation; Kíli could cry with relief when he sees the clarity in his uncle's eyes—and he hopes that this will work out after all.

.

.

The trip through Mirkwood goes much more smoothly than Kíli imagines it did last time, if only because Gandalf ends up accompanying them.

The Lady Galadriel—of whom Kíli has only heard in history lessons and fantastical tales, but who is surely immensely powerful—has agreed to bring down Dol Guldur with her army of elves, according to Radagast. Gandalf, on the other hand, has determined that it would be safer if he traveled with Bilbo, to prevent anything from happening with the Ring.

The hobbit is harsher than he has been in the past, but not immensely so, and he is clearly doing his best to act normally. (Kíli knows this must have been happening for some time, since they passed under the mountains, and wonders how he could not have noticed it before. Perhaps he just assumed the hobbit was finally growing a thicker skin.) "If it's going to cause that big of a fuss, I'd rather be rid of it," Bilbo announces the next day, after Gandalf explains to the rest of them exactly how the situation stands—though his fingers curl protectively (unconsciously) in his pocket.

Gandalf beams at him, announces something about the courage of hobbits, and starts off into the trees anew.

King Thranduil is every bit as terrifying as Thorin's stories made him out to be, though Kíli is intensely grateful that they don't run into trouble with the spiders as Gimli mentioned, nor the weeks lost in the dungeons of the palace, only to be saved by a perilous barrel ride down the river. His cousin recalled the story with fond amusement—and Merry and Pippin laughed, telling them how Bilbo spun the tale to poke fun at Fíli and his apples—but nevertheless, Kíli is not sad to see it pass them by.

(After all, though Gandalf is there as an intermediary, Thranduil and Thorin are at each other's throats for the entirety of their short meeting.)

"You know of the future?" the Elvenking addresses the two of them in his cold voice, and Kíli unconsciously feels his spine straightening, feels his cheeks heat up under the scrutiny though he bears it with grim face and sharp eyes. "How do I know you are not—"

"_I _vouch for them, Thranduil Oropherion," Gandalf says sharply, thumping his staff on the ground and frowning up at the elf, upon his throne. "If you will not listen to dwarves, perhaps you will listen to _me._ Even now, the Lady Galadriel is mobilizing forces against Dol Guldur, south of your borders, which you have happily ignored and allowed to fester for far too long. With any luck we will be able to avert the tragedy that was wrought in the future the princes saw, but we need your help to do it."

"Hmm," Thranduil says, though his face is impassive, and he does not give them an answer outright.

(However, he leaves them be, grants them safe passage through the rest of his lands…and Kíli can see him speaking in low tones to several guards as they take their leave.)

.

.

Laketown is rather unremarkable, though they are greeted graciously enough by the greedy, disgusting Master. Kíli does his best to escape the formalities as soon as possible, retreating with his brother to the Company's designated rooms to discuss something that has been on both their minds for several days now.

"What are we going to do about the dragon? We can't let Laketown burn, we have to do something _differently _this time—"

Fíli looks incredibly frustrated and—dare Kíli admit it—_scared,_ because for all their youthful bravado and their unfortunate insight, neither of them have actually thought of how to dispose of the dragon before the orcs arrive. "Bard shot him down with a windlance, Gimli said," Kíli says slowly, doing his best to remember—there is a weakness on the dragon's left breast, he remembers that clearly, but he also knows that no regular arrow will be able to kill such a foul beast. "If we can kill him before he ever leaves the mountain, that would save Laketown, but—"

"No," Fíli says firmly, his face chalk-white as he sees right through Kíli's pretenses. "You are _not_ going in to shoot him, brother—what kind of foolish suicide would that be—?"

"What choice do we have?" he argues back, crossing his arms across his chest to hide their trembling. "No other in the Company is skilled enough with a bow, and unless Gandalf has some sort of miracle up his sleeve, there is truly no other option…unless we want to endanger the thousands of people who have lived their whole lives for fear of the dragon already."

Fíli gapes at him, his eyes searching Kíli's steely gaze and tight-lipped mouth and rod-straight shoulders. "You would only walk to your death," he says finally, hoarsely, and his hands clench and unclench uselessly at his side. "You find out you are destined to die, and work to avert it only to choose a more gruesome end? What would I do without you, Kíli—if you died, I could not—"

"You speak as if I am already dead," Kíli says, though he relaxes his stance as he sees Fíli's composure slipping away. "We have Gandalf with us now, when we did not in that time—maybe he has some sort of magic that can augment my arrows, enough to kill him—truly, what other choice do we have?—"

There is no other choice, and they both know it, but Fíli seems stubbornly unable to admit it to himself—and Kíli draws him into an embrace even as he knows, somewhere, that his brother is probably right. But if it gives him a chance to save these men from the wrath of the dragon, what else could he possibly do?

And when he brings the idea before Thorin and Gandalf soon after, a pasty Fíli at his side, his uncle refuses immediately, nearly knocking him over the head for his stupidity and forbidding him from going anywhere near the dragon. But Gandalf looks speculative, and though Kíli knows he will make no headway on his uncle tonight, perhaps, soon, he can be brought to realize that there truly is no other way to do this.

This is exactly what he signed up for; near-certain death by laceration or evisceration or incineration was written out plainly in the contract, after all. But he trusts Gandalf to protect him as much as he can—he trusts his own skill with his bow to hit his mark—he trusts his instincts, and he knows that this is plainly their best shot at destroying the dragon before he brings his wrath onto any more innocent creatures.

(He just hopes he _will_ survive it, because he would give nearly anything to make sure that hopelessly desperate, lost look never appears on Fíli's face again.)

.

.

A dark-haired bargeman who carries a bow—Kíli remembers Gimli's descriptions of Bard, and seeks him out when he gets a free moment a few days later, away from the Company.

"You are Bard?" he asks loudly, hurrying to keep up with the man's long strides as he heads toward the outskirts of town.

"And you are a dwarf who plans to bring dragonfire down upon the heads of my children. I have no business with you," the man snaps, not even looking back toward him and beginning to load up a boat.

"That's what I need to speak with you about," Kíli pushes on, undeterred—he understands the man's concern, he _does,_ but if he doesn't manage to kill the dragon, this man is their only hope. "You need to speak to the rest of the Company and Gandalf—we know of the dragon's weakness. If Smaug leaves the mountain before we manage to kill him, you need to fell him before he destroys the town."

"What makes you think I am capable of slaying a dragon, Master Dwarf?" Bard finally rounds on him, his voice harsh and his face twisted in impatience. "I am a bargeman and a hunter on the side, who only barely provides for his children—"

"And you are the best archer in Laketown," Kíli finishes for him, not at all intimidated and glaring right back at him. "You know how to wield the windlance, do you not? I myself am an archer—Gandalf says he may be able to augment my arrows to slay the dragon, but if he cannot, or I fail, you are our best chance of killing him. You _must_ listen to me."

"Give me one good reason to," Bard says, though he does not move to leave Kíli standing alone on the docks. "Give me one good reason why I should listen to those who would willingly let every man, woman, and child in this town die for a few piles of gold."

"Because there is an orc army coming our way at this very moment," Kíli says, his voice tight, and he knows he has Bard's attention when the man's eyes widen, his mouth dropping open a bit. "And I'd rather not think of what would happen if Smaug were still living when it arrives."

Bard is clearly looking for a lie in his face, in his stance, but Kíli stands firm, hands balling into fists. Finally—_finally_—the man lets out a heavy sigh, his face pasty, and nods, tossing the rest of his supplies into the barge, and telling Kíli to lead the way.

.

.

Erebor is overwhelming in its presence, terrifying in its beauty, and staggering in its vastness.

Kíli has never been more scared in his entire life.

He keeps a wary eye on Thorin as they make camp outside the hidden door. They are a few days ahead of schedule, due to their expedited trip through Mirkwood, but Thorin announced to the Company the week previously that he could not stand to stay any longer in Laketown.

Everyone had agreed, for while most of the townsfolk were tolerable—and Bard had been amenable to their plan, once it was explained in its entirety—the Master and his attendants were nothing short of vile. So the fifteen of them make themselves comfortable on the wide ledge, ready to wait until Durin's Day and the chance to open the door to their ancestors' kingdom.

Bilbo is growing more and more antsy as time goes on, though Gandalf and Thorin have assured him that with these new circumstances, a burglar is not so necessary in the mountain as he once was. After all—Fíli and Kíli told the others, point-blank, that the Ring is not to enter Erebor, for it could easily magnify the dragon's spell over the gold to insatiable heights. None of them are willing to take that risk, least of all their uncle.

(Thorin had taken them aside one night, early into Mirkwood, as if to say something…but instead choked on his words, pulling them both into a rib-crushing embrace that had them stiffening in surprise.

"If it ever comes to that, in battle, I forbid you from laying down your lives for mine," Thorin said into their hair, nearly indecipherable. "That is beyond foolish, and if what you said of my state of mind was true—"

"That doesn't mean you weren't our uncle," Kíli said with conviction, swatting Thorin on the shoulder lightly. "We wouldn't dream of doing anything else—and if you try to convince us otherwise, you're an even bigger idiot than we are."

Thorin choked out something between a laugh and a sob and only gripped them tighter, incapable of saying anything else.)

The days pass slowly, and the others are growing restless, wandering farther and farther away from the camp during daytime. Fíli and Kíli, on the other hand, stay mostly put, watching the comings and goings of the others, keeping a weather eye on Bilbo and Thorin (who seems just like his normal, cantankerous self, and stubbornly committed to staying that way) as Gandalf only looks on with his old, old gaze.

"What was it that caused your state, when you returned to us?" Gandalf asks one night, when they are mostly alone; Thorin and Bilbo are on the other side of camp, smoking their pipes and speaking in quiet undertones to each other with serious faces, and the rest of the Company is nowhere to be seen. "Though news of your fate is terrible, I doubt it would have reduced you to _that._"

Kíli flushes at the memory of his near-breakdown, but quickly sobers as he is forced to recall those they left behind. Fortunately, Fíli takes it upon himself to answer—"You—the Fellowship meant to cross the Misty Mountains to get to Lórien, and because the High Pass was closed to them, they decided to travel through Khazad-dûm."

Gandalf sucks in a harsh breath, his brows rising quickly as he looks between the two of them. "Why on earth would I have decided that was even a possibility? Surely—"

"Balin had reclaimed it, three decades earlier, because so many goblins were killed in the—in the battle," Fíli says, staring at the ground somewhere between his boots and Gandalf's. "Gimli said that they were doing well in the restorations, so it seemed the most logical solution."

The silence stretches between them for several seconds, and Gandalf finally sighs. "I imagine you did not meet your cousin in the mines, then."

Fíli shakes his head, blinking rapidly, and his voice is hoarse when he finally says—"It was nothing more than a tomb, desecrated and overrun by orcs."

The three of them are quiet once more, and Kíli has no intention of breaking it—forcing himself to forget the horrible memories of the decayed bodies in the entrance hall, of Ori's corpse and Balin's tomb and Gimli's pained, horrified eyes as he forced them to drink the antidote—

"I am truly sorry," Gandalf says, his voice heavy, and none of them say any more the rest of the night.

.

.

Durin's Day dawns amidst great excitement, though all of the dwarves know nothing will happen until night begins to fall.

The camp—usually silent in its emptiness—is now buzzing with activity; everyone packs up their supplies, prepares to move into the mountain—somehow, everyone has unerring faith that the dragon will soon be dead, and the mountain will be theirs once again.

Everyone except Kíli, his brother, and his uncle.

Thorin's mouth is set in a grim line all morning, only watching the goings-on of the camp with furrowed brows. He has ascertained with Kíli half a dozen times the location of Smaug's weakness—asked Gandalf twice as often whether he will be able to augment Kíli's arrows enough to slay such a creature—sent a score of nervous glances toward a grim-faced Bilbo, who seems to have truly accepted his lot in this quest, for better or for worse.

The Ring, it has been decided, will stay outside on the ledge with the rest of the Company (far away from any of them, and far away from anywhere it could lose itself to the wildness of the mountainside) while Bilbo enters the mountain alone—after all, dwarf-stench is all too familiar to Smaug, and the consequences of any attempted trickery will be disastrous. (Though, honestly, Kíli isn't sure how long Bilbo will be able to fool the dragon into thinking he is alone—if he will be able to at all.)

Kíli and Gandalf will enter a short while later, and with any luck, Smaug will give him an opportunity to take the fatal shot before he burns them all to ashes.

If only it were so easy to do in practice.

Fíli is having fits about the danger Kíli's placing himself in, but the younger eventually put his foot down, on one of their last nights in Laketown. The first time, that place burned to the ground, and too many lives were lost in the flames; if there is even the smallest chance that they could spare the men-folk that terror, he will take it in an instant, no matter what his older brother says. He's the only one of the Company who can do this, after all, and he did not join this quest without knowing the dangers.

(He feels terror unfurling in his gut all the same, and knows that were it not for the strength lent to him by his kin and his friends and the memories of the alternative, he would not be able to bring himself to do this.)

The door opens at the first beams of moonlight, and Thorin pushes it open slowly, reverently, clearly lost in thought and memories as he takes in the smell and sight of his homeland for the first time in nearly two hundred years. Though all they can see is a small, unadorned entryway, unspectacular by all accounts, Kíli can't help but be entranced as well—_this is Erebor;_ this is his uncle's kingdom; this is everything he was told in bedtime stories as a child, every lullaby his mother ever sang and every dream he ever had in the blackest of nights—

Bilbo steps forward slowly, shakily, and receives low murmurs of encouragement, pats on the back and small smiles from every member of the Company. When he reaches the door—and Thorin—the king only nods at him, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder and staring at him for several moments…

And then he is pushing the hobbit gently through the doorway, into the darkness of the deserted mountain.

The wait is torturous, and even though Kíli knows he cannot go in just yet (for Bilbo needs time to maneuver Smaug so that if—_when_—he rears up, he will have an unimpeded shot at the dragon's massive chest), he finds himself pacing around the ledge as Gandalf beings inspecting his quiver.

The ring sits on the ground, surrounded by a circle of stones—such an innocent-looking thing, it is, yet every one of them avoids it like the plague. Bombur and Ori—those decided to be least susceptible to the gold sickness—are nearest to it, charged with making sure it does not somehow roll off on its own. Thorin is on the exact opposite side of the ledge, with eyes only for the dark, open doorway feet from him.

This is it—this is everything they have been working toward for months and years and _decades,_ and now they must wait for a hobbit to outsmart a dragon, and a dwarf barely into his majority to make the perfect shot to stop its heart.

(What kind of hopeless quest _is_ this?)

Eventually, Gandalf begins mumbling, and the arrows glow with an unearthly light; after several moments, while the dwarves stare at him as if in a trance, he is apparently finished, and the arrows return to their normal hue, looking as innocuous as any piece of wood.

"Are they ready?" Thorin asks gravely, and Gandalf only nods.

Within moments, Fíli has crossed the ledge and pulled Kíli into a crushing hug, burying his nose in his hair and whispering pleas, threats, _begging_ him to stay alive in the mountain, to come back to him in one piece. If the dragon is not destroyed, there is another chance to do it—but if Kíli is killed…

He remembers vividly the look on Gimli's face, that night by the campfire—remembers Fíli's heaving sobs as he learned what happened in the battle, remembers his hands trembling beyond his control and his face twisted horrifically in grief and tears—_tears_—falling from his strong, heroic brother's eyes—

He only hugs him back tightly, swearing to return though they both know it may well never happen, and revels in the comfort he draws in these few short moments from his brother's embrace. And then he is stepping toward the door, accepting his quiver from the wizard and strapping his bow across his back, nodding gravely to the Company as the two of them make their way inside.

Thorin's hand on his shoulder stops him short, and he looks up to see his uncle's face twisted in badly-concealed fear, the likes of which Kíli has never seen there. He grasps Thorin's hand with his own, squeezing lightly, and says, "I'll be fine, I swear it."

Thorin snorts, but says nothing more than a terse "be careful."

.

.

Kíli's footsteps echo, uncomfortably loud, in the passageway as he and Gandalf begin the descent. Neither of them speak, and Kíli thinks he's glad Gandalf does not try to fill the silence with idle chatter, inane reassurances, when he, at least, is likely walking to his own grisly death.

He knows the way, somehow, though he has certainly never set foot in the mountain—and he sees a pleased sort of smile grow on Gandalf's face as he unconsciously takes the lead, showing them through the winding corridors until it finally opens up into—

_By Mahal,_ Kíli feels his knees nearly give out at the sight of the treasury and the veritable _ocean_ of gold held within; at first, he does not even notice the dragon—the great, hulking beast lurking and casting his shadow over everything—because simply the _shine_ of the treasure here is so hypnotic that—

He realizes what he's doing and shakes himself out of it abruptly, horrified at his own thoughts—and he has time to see one short, worried glance from Gandalf before the two of them are forced to assess the situation at hand. Smaug—yes, he is here, and he is _enormous_ and gods above Kíli can't help but freeze as he sees Bilbo—tiny, helpless Bilbo—standing far too close to one of his claws. His friend's silver tongue is working to its fullest extent as he tries to keep the dragon talking, keep him distracted, keep himself _alive—_but when Bilbo catches sight of the two of them and allows his gaze to flicker sideways for too long, Smaug realizes something is wrong.

And when he takes a great sniff that nearly sends Bilbo flying, he smells the dwarf-stench that has haunted him for so long—smells something else, too, something greater and more powerful (but not so powerful as _him_—Smaug the _Magnificent,_ Smaug the _Terrible_), and so he whirls around, keen orange eyes finding Kíli and Gandalf quickly and smoke blowing from his great nostrils in rage when he sees.

"So you are not only a thief, but a liar as well," Smaug snarls down to Bilbo, and his voice is deep and unearthly; Kíli has never heard anything like it—and wishes never to hear it again. The hobbit is desperately clambering away from the dragon's rampaging claws—and Kíli watches with growing dread, knowing there is nothing he can do to help his friend to safety. "You bring dwarves to _my_ mountain—you think you can best me—?"

"Smaug!" Kíli calls out suddenly, irrationally, because all he can think now is that _Bilbo is going to die if this goes on_ and he would never, _never_ forgive himself if they changed this future to save their own lives, only to sacrifice their friend's instead—"So you're just as pathetic as all the stories claim, I see. Haven't even had the courage to leave the mountain for sixty years—what are you hiding from, I wonder?"

Gandalf hisses, shooting Kíli a sharp look that he ignores completely. The trick works just as Kíli hoped; Smaug roars, flames licking up his open maw as he twists to face Kíli instead. He's drawn his bow and an arrow, though he doesn't dare take aim yet—not until the last second, when he's sure what he's aiming for and that he has a clear shot and—

"I devoured your ancestors and used their bones to clean my teeth!" the dragon roars, rage nearly blinding him as he bears down on Kíli. "Dwarves are less than nothing to me—I bathe in their riches and drink their blood—do not think you can harm me with that toy you carry, child, because I can assure you that no weapon made by _dwarves_ could ever harm my impenetrable shield!" He rears up, and for a split second Kíli thinks that here is his chance—but the dragon's legs are flailing before his body, obscuring any glimpse he hopes to catch of the broken scale, and the moment is gone far too quickly.

"Do not think I don't know what you are here to do—you and your kin think you can best _me_, but there is no greater creature in all the lands! I—"

Kíli scans the treasury quickly, half-listening to Smaug's self-serving rages; he searches for Bilbo and is desperately relieved to see him climbing up a crumbling pillar to relative safety, not terribly close but near enough to see properly. The hobbit's eyes are enormously wide, shaking his head violently at Kíli even as he opens his mouth to cut off the dragon's rants.

"You want to know what I think of you, Smaug?" he calls up bravely, sneering and subtly shifting the weapon in his grip. "I think you're slow, and stupid, and grown fat and lazy in your impotence. Cooped up in a mountain that still reeks of dwarf—what kind of dragon _are _you?"

The roar that emits from Smaug's throat very nearly knocks Kíli off balance just from the sheer volume of it. The dragon rears up again, bracing his claws on two nearby pillars, and his chest begins to glow as he clearly intends to incinerate the both of them—

But the illumination and resulting shadows draw Kíli's keen eyes to exactly what he needs to see, and even as Smaug roars again, the flames licking up his throat, Kíli pulls back the bowstring, takes quick, careful aim, and fires his arrow straight into the opening in Smaug's breast.

The light emitted from the shot is blinding, and for one terrible moment Kíli thinks he might have missed—but then he realizes that he is still alive, has not been burned to death by dragonfire, and that Smaug has frozen in place, the blaze in his great body slowly dimming—

And then he is falling falling falling, down into the gold, sending bruising showers of coins and gems and gold until he lands at last with a deafening, earth-shattering crash, and moves no more.


	8. VIII

**VIII.**

Thorin waits with the rest outside the hidden door, ears strained and nerves utterly destroyed from the tension palpable in the air.

Fíli has not stopped moving since his brother first disappeared down the corridor with the wizard; though Gandalf surely went to provide some sort of support for Kíli—or, truly, for his brother, for Fíli seems more terrified of the outcomes than Kíli does—Thorin does not truly know the extent of the wizard's abilities. Could he protect Kíli and Bilbo from the dragon's fire? Could he kill the beast himself, if it came down to it?

He does not know the answer, and it's shredding the last vestiges of his patience as he fights the urge to follow Fíli in his pacing.

Truly, this was a terrible plan—but what other did they have? He and Dwalin are fair archers, but not nearly good enough to hit an area the size of a single scale on a creature as massive as Smaug. Kíli was always their only option—barring the Men of the Lake, who he refuses to drag into this more than he already has.

(After all, that's what—his _other_ _self_ did, and look where that got them all.)

It's going against every instinct he has to agree to give gold to Bard, even though, intellectually, he understands that the man is the heir of Dale. Some of the gold in Erebor surely belongs to him by right… But Thorin can't help but think that this is _his_ mountain, and every gold coin that belongs to the men was forged by dwarven smiths and dwarven sweat and dwarven blood, so would that not mean that, truly, the treasure does belong to him and his kin alone?

(He's seen the sideways looks Fíli and Kíli have been giving him, though—he sees the way they watch him as if waiting for him to snap. And so he pulls himself together, forces himself to think more philanthropically than perhaps he has in all his life, because that is surely the only way to ensure that his nephews do not die in the looming battle.)

(That is, of course, assuming that Kíli survives his encounter with the dragon.)

The Arkenstone lingers always at the edges of his mind, but he recognizes that its discovery only encouraged Thrór's madness—and so he knows he can't think about that right now. After all, his nephew is alone in the depths of Erebor at this very moment—the mountain the boy has grown up hearing about, the mountain he was so determined to help reclaim—with only a hobbit and a wizard and a _dragon_ for company, and even as Thorin desperately hopes otherwise, he knows that, more than likely, he will not see Kíli again.

There is an almighty roar from the depths of the mountain that causes the whole ground to shake; everyone jumps, but none so much as Fíli, who turns to Thorin with a ghost-white face, his hands going for his swords and his feet already taking steps toward the door.

"Fíli," he says, stopping his nephew in his tracks, and he nearly cracks then at the despair and horror clear in his nephew's eyes. "Give them a moment. Gandalf is there; he will protect your brother, you know that."

(He only wishes he could believe such bottomless platitudes himself.)

A few moments longer—and then there is a deafening crash that nearly dislodges Thorin's stance on the loose rock beneath him. Across the camp, he hears someone yelp in terror, but he has no thought to spare except that which realizes _nothing could make a crash like that except a dragon_—and he is hurtling through the door even before realizing that he's moved, and he can hear footsteps—Fíli, Dwalin, Óin—tramping close behind him.

That was either Smaug throwing himself at the remaining architecture of the treasury to smash Kíli to pieces—or the dragon's dead body hitting the ground. Thorin can only hope that it is the latter as he finally comes out upon the treasury—and though the gold glitters temptingly at the edges of his vision, all he can see is the figure in grey stooped over a smaller one, and the hobbit making his way as quickly as he is able across the wreckage of a collapsed pillar.

_"Kíli!"_

Fíli shoves past Thorin without warning, slamming into Gandalf and manhandling him aside until Kíli is in full view. Thorin lets out a breath as he sees that Kíli is not dead or gravely injured, as he feared—he looks exhausted, yes, and his bow is yet held loosely in hand, but there is a wide, dazed smile growing on his face. As he gestures out toward the depths of the treasury, Thorin finally allows himself a glimpse over the edge of the walkway.

The gold—oh, the gold!—it is there, in unbelievable amounts, and it captures Thorin's full attention for several seconds until the astonished cries of the others break through his mind and cause him to focus on what else lays in his grandfather's treasury.

And he could shout—he could _scream_—because Smaug is there, and Smaug is dead—and it was Kíli who killed him—Kíli, who for so many years was mocked by the others for his choice of weapon—Kíli, who despite everyone's best efforts, has clearly always thought himself in the shadow of his brother—

_Kíli just killed the dragon,_ and Thorin is still trying to wrap his mind around that fact as Fíli pulls Kíli to his feet and yanks both him and Thorin into a harsh hug. He feels the breath being slowly squeezed out of him, but he can tell that both his nephews are trembling, that there are a few, rebellious tears leaking from Fíli's eyes as he reassures himself that his brother has survived.

_Smaug is dead. Smaug is dead. Smaug is dead._ His mountain is reclaimed, and Laketown is intact, and already they are preparing for the battle headed for their front door, with more soldiers than they ever had last time—and Thorin feels hope shine in his heart as he has not in _decades,_ because—

"The magic drew on much of his energy," Gandalf is telling a grumpy Óin, who has tried and failed to extricate Kíli from the others' embrace to ensure he is all right. "The dragon did not touch him. Once he gets a good night's sleep, he will be absolutely fine."

The old dwarf harrumphs but turns away from Kíli, instead stepping to inspect Bilbo—who, Thorin can see, has apparently scraped his feet and hands on something. Falling down a pile of gold, most likely, or climbing the rubble—but he is standing under his own power, trying to flap away the dwarf's fussing, and asking anxiously whether Kíli is all right, because he saw the arrow strike and saw him fall and—

Dwalin, a gruff, true smile on his face, retreats, saying he will go fetch the others. Gandalf calls a warning to not leave the Ring unattended, and Dwalin huffs and does not turn, only waving a hand over his shoulder before disappearing back up the stairs.

Fíli is repeating his brother's name like a mantra, as if it's the only thing anchoring him in reality—he's buried his head deeper into Kíli's shoulder, clutching him desperately and clearly not willing to let go anytime soon. "Fíli," Thorin says, as gently as he can, for he can see that Kíli wishes to at least sit down, "your brother is all right. He was not injured, the dragon is dead—"

"Don't you do that to me again," Fíli says into Kíli's neck, apparently not even registering his uncle's words. "You—don't you _dare_ go into that battle, do you hear me? I—you can't—"

"You can't stop me," Kíli says stubbornly, though it's clear he has half a mind to demand the same thing from his brother. "There are going to be more soldiers this time—last time, it was only because we were outnumbered—that's what Gimli said—"

"I will lock you in a closet if I have to," Fíli growls, and something between a laugh and a sob chokes from Kíli's throat. Thorin would retreat a few feet—because he's begun to wonder how they're going to remove the dragon from the mountain and is hoping Gandalf will have some sort of spell to help with that—but neither of his nephews seem willing to release their grip on him. He resigns himself to this, though he manages to maneuver them enough until they are sitting down, Fíli nearly in his brother's lap as he attempts to control his emotions.

Most of the rest of the Company appears, then, rushing onto the walkway and exclaiming over the gold and the dragon's corpse, shouting their amazement and pride for the youngest member of their Company. But both Kíli and Fíli are beyond hearing the others' words, and when Thorin finally extricates himself from their grasps several moments later, he only smiles at the others and says,

"We have work to do."

.

.

Kíli must have passed out at some point in the mess that follows the dragon's demise, because the next thing he knows, he is bundled in several unfamiliar blankets, his head pillowed on the furs of his brother's coat.

He sits up slowly, throwing off the heavy weights, and peers around, forgetting for a moment where he is before he recognizes the near-blinding sheen of gold all around him. He can feel it calling to him, deep within his bones, just as the mithril of Moria did, but he pushes it out of his mind as well as he can.

_He can't go mad, not here, he can't fail the others like that—_

There is a distinct lack of chatter around him, and he looks around, trying to find the others and growing increasingly alarmed when he sees no one. The dragon's corpse is still exactly where it fell, twisted grotesquely and the maw open in rage as Smaug attempted to survive his body's failings during its death throes.

Something like pride tears through him at the sight, because _he_ was the one who did that—_he_ killed Smaug, when thousands before him failed—_he_ is the savior of an entire people's homeland, of his friends' lives and his uncle's gold and—

His mind is going hazy again, and he realizes it only after several seconds of blinking stupidly into space. He growls under his breath and smacks himself, hard, in the temple with the heel of his hand, ignoring the start of pain and forcing himself to his feet. This—he knows not what is causing these foreign thoughts, whether it is the dragon's dark magic on the gold or Bilbo's evil ring or the cursed blood running through his veins, but he shoves the hateful, selfish thoughts to the back of his mind and busies himself with finding the rest of his Company.

Ori and Bilbo, as it turns out, are on the ledge outside where they made camp, sitting with the Ring and chatting amicably as Kíli comes upon them. Ori looks up when he steps outside, blinking against the sunlight glaring into his eyes after long hours in the mountain, and smiles widely, gesturing for him to sit down.

"Where is everyone?" Kíli asks, stifling a yawn and incredibly grateful at the sudden clarity he feels for the fresh air. (Is the gold affecting him this terribly? _Why?_) "I didn't sleep for too long, did I?"

"Almost a whole day," Bilbo says, and Kíli chokes on his own breath as the hobbit shrugs. "Gandalf says it was to be expected. Your brother almost had a heart attack when you passed out, I think, but there wasn't ever anything wrong with you. The magic just took a lot of your energy. We would have moved you, but it's started to get cold out here, so…"

"So where are others?" Clearly, if they're outside, they're freezing, because he was burrowed in half the Company's coats, and the others' seem to be surrounding Bilbo and Ori—the smallest, skinniest, he supposes, but winter is fast approaching, and it'd be stupid for the rest of them to—

"They're with Gandalf at the front gates, seeing if he can help move the rubble away to get people past," Ori nods in that general direction. "With Dáin's army coming—and if there is truly battle coming, then we'll have to have somewhere to put the—the wounded—"

His face falls at the mention of the inevitable battle, and Kíli feels sudden sympathy (horror) for him, because he knows Ori was never made for war. He's small—smaller than Kíli and his brother, even though he is several decades older—and has always preferred lessons in scribing to those of warfare.

(It must have been a miracle that he survived this battle at all, and makes his violent death in Moria all the more terrible.)

"We'll be fine," Kíli says bracingly, patting him on the shoulder with a thin smile. "We're prepared this time, with more soldiers from all fronts, and since we know they're coming…"

Ori is looking at him with something strange in his eyes, but eventually only shakes his head, attempting a smile in return. "We can't go into the mountain because of the Ring, but I know Fíli didn't want to leave you in the treasury alone. He'll want to know you've woken."

"Aye, he will," Kíli says, though he's reluctant to leave his friends here, all alone. "Are you two all right? Do you want anything?"

"We're fine," Bilbo says, and his smile is just as forced as Ori's. (_This Ring needs to be destroyed._ And it pains Kíli so horribly that they can't possibly get a chance to sort it out until after the goblins are taken care of.) "You go find your brother, all right? We'll be right here when you want to come back."

Kíli knows he really doesn't have much of a choice, so he smiles and pats both of them on the shoulder before taking his leave.

.

.

Fíli is indeed relieved to see him, when he finds his way to the entrance hall a little while later.

He's greeted with cheers from the others, warm smiles and claps on the back as he makes his way through their midst, and he feels himself grinning as he comes upon Fíli and Thorin. His uncle smiles widely at him—wider, Kíli thinks, than he has ever seen before on his uncle's face—and Fíli pulls him into a crushing hug again, though thankfully releasing him after several seconds to whack him over the head.

"I'll have to come up with an epithet for myself, it looks like," he says as greeting, sending him a smile that's one part proud and three parts exasperated. "Thorin Oakenshield and Kíli Dragonsbane—what must that look like, for the crown prince to be nameless?"

"I—_what?_" Kíli supposes it should only be expected that he would win accolades for his deeds, but it's scarcely been a day—Smaug's body is likely still warm enough to burn anyone who comes too close, and surely they all have more important things to do than—?

"A great title for a great warrior," Dwalin rumbles from behind him, sounding pleased. "You killed the greatest dragon of the North, laddie—you can't expect people to ignore that."

"But _now?_" he presses, raising an eyebrow when neither his uncle nor his brother reply. "Don't we have bigger things to worry about—?"

"We have sent a raven to Dáin, told him to muster an army for war," Thorin says. "And we have sent word to the Men and Elves as well—they know of the goblins, and even now they are gathering their own soldiers. There is naught left to do but prepare as best we can."

Kíli blinks, but supposes he has a point—really, there is not much else to do. And with the damage the dragon wrought still hanging over their heads—for great gouges mar the walls of the entrance hall, where Smaug clawed his way in—he supposes some cheer would do them all good.

"Well, have you made any headway while I was asleep?" he asks, peering up critically at the still mostly-blocked gates. Fíli laughs and grabs his hand, leading him forward and talking quickly to catch him up with all he has missed.

Apparently, it is a whole lot of discussion and not a lot of action, but he supposes nobody can be blamed for that but Smaug. A raven has set off for Ered Luin with the message that the dragon is dead, for by the time the others arrive, the battle will be long over. After all, Fíli says, the faster they can get everyone to the mountain before winter truly hits, the better.

Missives have been sent back and forth with the lake men, who seem all too happy to help them with supplies now that the dragon is dead and the dwarves sit upon a mountain of gold. Nevertheless, Thorin has agreed to trade for food to last them until Dáin arrives from the Iron Hills—and Kíli is heartened to hear that he readily offered compensation for the supplies. Thranduil is more wary but has sworn his aid should the goblins attack—and that, Thorin mutters from beside Kíli, is about as much as they could ever hope for.

They have wavered on what to do with Bilbo and the Ring—the battlefield is no place for a hobbit, no matter how courageous or hardy, but Laketown will not be safe, for it is directly in the path of the goblins, who Thranduil claims are moving north from Dol Guldur and from Moria. Gandalf frowned harshly at this but said nothing to the Company, and Kíli only hopes that whatever is troubling the wizard will wait until after they have finished with this more pressing problem.

The hobbit can't stay in the mountain, lest they risk the Ring's perversions—and yet he cannot stay beyond it. There is some squabbling, where Bofur suggests a few of them accompanying him back to the Elvenking's realm, but Kíli knows that Thranduil will be no more happy than them to house such a thing of evil.

It's set aside for the moment, most of the Company grumbling about the impossibility of it and _how in Mahal's name are we supposed to get rid of the damn thing, anyway?_

Kíli watches his uncle warily in the coming days, but he has not made a single mention of the Arkenstone, and the only time he ventures to the treasury is to fill several small chests to give to Bard when he arrives with water barrels and bags of provisions.

"You have my thanks," he says, inclining his head slightly to the man, who squints at him a moment before nodding shortly.

"We should be the ones thanking you, I think—or, at least, your heir. After all, he saved us all from a fate we thought inevitable."

Kíli feels the men's eyes slide to him, and feels his face heat up even as Thorin smiles slightly, pulling him forward a bit. "Aye, we have much to thank Kíli for."

The Arkenstone does not haunt his uncle (or, at least, if it does, he does not show it), and it is only several days later that he reenters the treasury to bring Fíli and Kíli to the armory, off to one side. His eyes are haunted as he moves through the room, heading straight for two sets of armor displayed in splendor at the top of the room, and Kíli realizes with horror that he intends to gift these to them.

"This was forged for me at my birth," Thorin says, the words heavy from his lips as he lifts the gold-plated armor, staring at it for a moment before handing it to Fíli. "Fit, I think, for the crown prince of Erebor."

"Uncle—" Fíli blinks several times at the golden sheen of the plate mail, his eyes wide, and Kíli knows his brother must be truly stunned, for he hardly ever calls Thorin that anymore. "I can't take this—it's yours—"

"No, it is yours now," Thorin says, and hefts the breastplate at Fíli until he takes it in trembling hands, holding it reverently and staring with wide eyes at his own reflection in the still-burnished gold. "And _this_—" Thorin lifts the silver armor next to it with perhaps even more respect, staring at it for several long moments before turning to Kíli—"was made for Frerin."

Kíli nearly chokes as his eyes seek out his uncle's, as Fíli's head whips around, because he can't mean—

But Thorin is holding the breastplate toward him, clearly intending for him to take it—

"Thorin," he manages to choke out, shaking his head violently and taking a step back. "Thorin, I can't—"

"Frerin would have loved you. Both of you." Thorin says, and perhaps there is something brimming in his eyes, or perhaps it is just the glare of the torches they carry. "You remind me of him, sometimes. He would have wanted you to have it—his nephew, the Dragonsbane…he would say your name is better than mine, I'm sure." He chuckles quietly, and Kíli falters, because he has never heard Thorin speak of his brother—has only ever heard a few things from their mother, when the two of them pressed her—and now he does not know what to do. "Take it, Kíli. It is yours."

And so Kíli grasps the beautiful breastplate with sweaty fingers, looks down at the intricate carvings that designate him as a son of Durin, and wonders, truly, what he has ever done to deserve the sure, blind praise of an uncle he will never know.

.

.

Kíli has only met Dáin Ironfoot a few times in his life, during some of his cousin's brief visits to Ered Luin, but when he arrives in Erebor two weeks later with an army two thousand strong, he thinks he could kiss him.

(_Five hundred dwarves,_ he remembers Gandalf telling them one night by a dimming fire, eighty years in the future. _Three hundred men. Two thousand elves. And many times that number of goblins, the wargs and bats beside._ He knows they will yet be outnumbered—because Laketown will give no more than seven or eight hundred soldiers at best, and Thranduil will likely be reluctant to muster the whole of his guard—but already they are evening their odds, increasing the number of trained fighters who are already discussing strategy and formation with Thorin.)

Dáin greets his cousin like a brother, pulling Thorin into a rough embrace and smiling broadly as he pulls away. Thorin greets him in kind, thanking him gravely for the assistance and promising to fill him in on the situation as soon as they get a moment alone, sending a glance to Fíli and Kíli. Alone, then, will include the two of them—will explain the situation to their cousin, to the next in the line of succession—will tell him what he must do with regards to the Ring in case...

Kíli shoves such thoughts away for the moment, following with Fíli and Gandalf as Dáin and Thorin walk to a smaller chamber off the entrance hall. Enough of the rubble blocking the entrance has been cleared for large groups to pass freely into the mountain, thanks to the wizard's help—and now, with so many hardy dwarves to help, it will only be a matter of time before the rest is cleared and then fortified with a barricade, defending the mountain should the goblins breach their defenses.

Thorin sends a despairing glance toward the wizard as he shuts the door behind them, but evidently decides that attempting to make him leave will be a wasted effort. He only seats himself heavily on one of the dusty stone benches along the edges of the room, gestures for the others to sit as well, and looks to Dáin with hard eyes.

"You know of my nephews," he says after a moment of silence, and Dáin's gaze turns toward Fíli and Kíli, dark eyes assessing for a moment before crinkling into a smile.

"Aye, though last I saw them, they were beardless and still playing with wooden axes. But now I hear one is a great swordsmaster, and the other a dragon slayer…you and Dís have raised them well."

Kíli feels himself flushing under the praise but says nothing, knowing Thorin would not appreciate being interrupted right now. And sure enough, his uncle begins speaking again—explains what happened in short, terse sentences, his face growing more shadowed as the tale goes on. He leaves out the part of his own madness but explains all else—their travel through time, the tale they learned of battle and death and the war surrounding one small ring—

Dáin's face grows more and more serious as Thorin continues; when he is finished, settling back against the wall with a face akin to stone, Dáin sighs heavily and glances between the four of them, saying after a moment, "You tell me this in case your fates cannot be altered, and I must become King."

"Yes," Thorin says, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest. "We will not hide in the mountain like cowards during the battle, nor will we needlessly run to our deaths. Already we are better prepared than we were last time, but if such a thing is inevitable…"

"I'll put together a guard for all three of you," Dáin says, his eyes meeting Thorin's, daring him to contradict it. "My best soldiers, though I suppose your Company will wish to join as well. If there is any way to prevent this, we will see it done, cousin—I would not take this throne from you if there were any chance for you to sit upon it yourself."

There is nothing but honest determination in his eyes as he stands, clearly already sorting through his soldiers, determining the best to accompany them into battle. And Kíli feels intensely grateful to his cousin, in this moment—he has never truly known Dáin, except in stories from his uncle and mother (of the way his grandfather took in as many refugees as their kingdom could hold, in the years after Erebor fell—of his heroic deeds at Azanulbizar, though he was even younger than Frerin at the time—of his just rule to the east, his wise counsel and—)

"Thank you," Thorin says, inclining his head and standing up as well, clasping Dáin's hands between his own. Dáin nods, looking at the other three in turn before leaving the room swiftly.

Thorin slumps, just a little bit, relief evident in the way his face relaxes. "Dáin is wise—wiser than any of us," he says, barking a short, humorless laugh. "Though his help during the journey would have been appreciated, I suppose we cannot complain when he has offered so much to us now."

Gandalf inclines his head, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips, and Fíli's eyes are lighter than they have been in days as the group of them leaves the room.

.

.

Soon, nearly a thousand men and several times that number of elves are camped in the shadow of the mountain, and the horizon darkens as the enemy approaches. Beorn is here, too, for which Kíli is grateful—after all, the man's bear form is terrifying even when he himself is not being threatened, and the great man made no secret of his hatred of orcs and goblins when they stopped in his lands.

Gandalf, Thorin, and the other leaders are in council nearly every waking moment, drawing up battle plans and dividing armies and trying to figure out their best chances of survival. Fíli told them, hands balled to still their trembling but head held high, how Gandalf described it as a bloodbath—twelve thousand orcs at least, many of them mounted on wargs, and countless bats circling in the sky. Bard blanches at the news, and Thranduil's frown deepens, but Dáin only huffs and reminds them all that their army is nearly twice as large as it was then, and that Beorn and Gandalf are worth several hundred foot soldiers on their own.

_The stubbornness of dwarves,_ Kíli heard Gandalf mutter under his breath, but instead of his customary frown, there is a pleased little smile there instead.

These meetings are grueling work, and he is glad he has not been asked to any of them beyond the initial, necessary information-gathering—formations, the enemies' tactics, everything they were ever told about the battle, no matter how small. Once this is finally over, he only spends time in the mountain with his brother, with his friends, and waits for the inevitable.

(Despite his great epithet—despite the foreknowledge he possesses and the assurances that they are so well-prepared, that Dáin's guard is so elite, that there is little chance of any of them dying—he cannot help but teeter on the edges of panic. He has never truly been in battle before, and he feels his innocence keenly in the dark hours of the night, curled up close beside his brother and begging silently for dreamless sleep to come.)

(The nightmares have not subsided since their travel through time, and he doubts they ever truly will.)

He finds himself unable to sleep upon the eve of battle, and so he allows himself to wander the mountain, clothed in only his trousers and a light tunic from Laketown. Soon, allowing his feet to lead him blindly onward, he finds himself upon the battlements of the mountain.

There are clear scorch-marks, here, even in the dim light, and Kíli finds himself entranced by them, lulled by the brightness of the stars and the not-quite-audible sounds of the illuminated camps far below. Smaug—he remembers Thorin's stories of that morning, how he watched the dragon rain fire down upon their heads, likely on this very spot—

_The dragon is dead,_ and yet he still feels the beast's presence, in the halls of the mountain. He is sure it is no accident that Thorin spends most of his time out on the desolate plains with the three gathered armies—he has seen the way his uncle scarcely sleeps, the way his jaw tightens and his gaze convulsively avoids the great doors of the treasury when he does venture into the mountain.

He does not want to think it—doesn't want to admit it to himself—but Kíli realizes that Thorin is scared of what he once was, of what he so easily could become if he is not careful of his thoughts and words and actions. Kíli is just young and foolish enough to hope that once the Ring is taken care of (Bilbo is sequestered in the elves' camp for now, offered a place on the archer's hill, far away, safe, during the battle), Thorin will have nothing to worry about. Thrór and Thráin, after all, bore Durin's Ring; Gandalf told them, his face darkening as they and Gimli gaped on in horror, that that ring, forged by Sauron, was likely what twisted their minds to greed and madness.

But that ring was lost with Thráin, and Thorin never once wore it—so that means he is not in any danger…right?

So lost in his thoughts, in hasty self-assurances and staring blankly at the ruined stone surrounding him, he does not notice his brother arrive at his side until Fíli touches his shoulder softly. He jumps and turns quickly, relaxing when he sees who it is and attempting a wan smile. "What are you doing up here?"

"I should be asking you that," Fíli shoots back, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning against a nearby pillar. "If we are to go to war tomorrow, brother, you should be sleeping, saving your strength."

"I—couldn't sleep," he admits after a moment, his gaze flickering out across the fields (they'll be saturated with blood by this time tomorrow, and he has to force down nausea at the thought) before returning to Fíli's face. "Can't stop thinking…"

Fíli's face falls for a moment, his features stern with concern as he steps to engulf Kíli in a hug. "You've been the one encouraging me, all this time," he says quietly into his hair. "Don't give up now. We'll be fine."

"But what if we're not?" Kíli blurts out, pushing gently at his brother's chest but not really wishing to pull away. "We've never fought in a battle before—and last time we weren't good enough to survive—"

"Oi," Fíli pulls back abruptly, glaring Kíli down for several seconds. "You know that's not true. You're nearly as good as me with a sword—and Gimli and the elf told us outright, if we hadn't been so stubborn as to defend Thorin, we wouldn't have been overwhelmed—"

"But…" Kíli feels his composure crumbling, looking away even as Fíli attempts to catch his gaze again. "What if…"

"You will survive this," Fíli says, and his voice is strong, reassuring, as he squeezes Kíli's arms, "and I will survive this, and so will Thorin, and so will the rest of the Company. You are brave—braver than me, for sure, so don't start to doubt yourself now, brother."

Something chokes from Kíli's throat—though he knows not what it is—but Fíli seems to accept that as answer enough; he only pulls him against his chest again, strong and warm and comforting against Kíli's racing heart.

(And here, if only for a moment, Kíli truly does believe that things will be all right, come the bloody dawn.)

.

.

.

.

The battle is worse than Kíli could have ever imagined.

He should have been prepared for this. He was told by Gandalf and Legolas—who were _there,_ who remembered it clearly—of the slaughter that occurred on these sacred lands, of the horrible way this battle was won, but with no true victory.

Maybe it was because he thought them better prepared this time.

(Nothing could have prepared him for this.)

He donned Frerin's armor this morning, sheathed his own sword and another beside, picked up a heavy iron shield and helm and clasped hands with his brother, reassuring but utterly terrified. And when they charged the battlefield—without a word of treaty with these monsters, for what else could they want but bloodshed?—Thorin was at the head, roaring a mighty war cry as they raced down the side of the mountain.

Dáin's guard is strong and unbreakable, but it does not block them from all warfare—Kíli's sword is black with orc blood and the armor is already ruined, smeared with blood and dented and scratched where it saved his life time and again. Fíli, beside him, bears a bloodless face and a terrifying snarl as he fights like a mad thing against the waves and waves of goblins. The Free People's armies are bolstered, but the enemy seems endless, and Kíli knows they are hopelessly outnumbered even as their small group stands their ground, fighting and slashing and felling these monsters, fuelled only by the desperate adrenaline keeping them alive.

He sees Balin struck down, several feet away, and the cry that leaves his throat sounds inhuman as he attempts to fight his way over. But a huge warg with teeth the size of his hand and merciless black eyes gets in the way, and he is forced to confront it and its rider before he can make his way to his cousin, his mind screeching and his heart pounding because _if Balin is dead—_

But Balin is alive—_thank Mahal, Balin is alive—_and he smiles tightly as Kíli helps him to his feet. "Just a scratch, laddie. Don't worry about me." But Kíli can see him limping as he fights with his great mace, and he stubbornly stays nearby to protect him from any further harm.

The battle drags on for hours, and Kíli is sure there must be more bodies upon the ground than soldiers still up and fighting. Their group was split, some time ago, but Kíli can see many from the Company fighting at the edges of his vision, and none of them have been seriously injured; Dáin's guard, though thinned, stands strong, and Kíli begins to think that maybe—_maybe_—things will turn out all right—

But then there is an orc at Fíli's undefended back, a few feet away, and he doesn't even think—as the monster raises its sword, as Fíli turns _too slow too close too late—_

He doesn't even think before hurling himself in the middle, because without his brother, he knows this life would be nothing at all.


	9. IX

**IX.**

Thorin is in a haze, after the battle is over.

Dwalin's supporting him as they walk back to camp, for his knee is ruined, and he narrowly missed getting his leg ripped off entirely by Azog's warg. (That godforsaken monster is finally, _finally_ dead—Thorin stabbed him through the chest, and when that did not prove enough to fell him, Beorn charged out of the masses, ripping the monster's head from his shoulders. Thorin is caked in black blood, but he is alive, and Azog is dead, and truly, what else could he possibly ask for?) He is _alive_—is in no danger of dying—and he sees the heartened, relieved smiles of the rest of his Company as the two of them finally make their way into the camps.

_All thanks to his nephews._ And where are they, his ridiculous, foolhardy boys? He only saw them an hour or so ago, fighting like madmen in battle, determined to keep each other alive. He asks Dwalin whether he has seen them more recently, but his friend only shrugs. Which, Thorin must admit, he should have expected. Dwalin was practically glued to his side the whole time, desperate to do anything to keep his kin from falling in battle.

_And he succeeded._ The battle is over, and while the casualties are heavy, they are certainly not so terrible as they could have been, should Fíli and Kíli not have warned them. He feels his lips tugging down into a frown at the thought, even as an uneven step jars his shattered knee. Where are they? He's sure the two of them want to know that he is all right, want to know that the rest of them are alive and well—

(Through the adrenaline still coursing through his system, through the delirious, all-consuming relief that the battle went better than it did before, a darker alternative does not even cross his mind.)

They turn a corner, Dwalin calling out for a healer though Thorin insists that he is fine, that his leg can wait for later, because surely others' lives are much more fragile than his at the—

Every thought he has on the matter is halted abruptly when he sees half the Company—most of those he has not seen already—gathered around one tent. A bloody Fíli is being held in place by Dori, who is glancing between the prince and the tent as Fíli attempts furiously to break free.

"_Let me in—_damn you, Dori, he's_—"_

The words wash over Thorin like a geyser, as he realizes who exactly is absent from the group. Fíli continues to spit curses at Dori—and Glóin and Bifur, who move to help when his struggles become more violent. What Thorin can see of his face is chalk-white—paler even than when the two of them reappeared on the outskirts of Mirkwood, and—

"What happened?" he asks harshly, nearly dragging Dwalin along as he rushes forward. "Fíli, what's going on?"

Fíli turns, then, and though the boy's face is caked in black gore and red blood, Thorin sees the grief there clearly, and it almost physically strikes him. "He—there was an orc, behind me, I didn't see it until too late but _Kíli_—"

"Óin and Gandalf and are in there," Glóin attempts to soothe him, though Fíli doesn't seem to even hear him at all. "He's still breathing, he'll—"

_"Let me in, or so help me I'll—!"_

But the others' grips on his arms and middle are firm and unyielding, despite his every attempt to break free, and eventually Fíli collapses against Dori with a sob. The old dwarf sits him down carefully (keeping a tight grip on his arm nonetheless, clearly not trusting him not to run off toward his brother), and Bifur hurries forward ahead of Thorin, inspecting the nasty wound on Fíli's head. Even with the knowledge that superficial head wounds are disproportionately bloody, Thorin worries, stepping forward with Dwalin as quickly as he is able and waiting anxiously for the verdict.

Bifur turns around after several long moments, nodding reassuringly to Thorin. _All right,_ he signs in Iglishmêk, smiling tightly. _It will scar, but he's all right._

Thorin nods his thanks and nearly collapses next to his nephew, opposite Dori, only preventing himself from jarring his knee further by Dwalin's quick reflexes. He puts a tentative arm around Fíli's shoulders, unsure of how he will respond—and the boy stiffens for a moment before relaxing bonelessly into his grip, eyes staring blankly at the tent flap, beyond which Thorin can see several figures moving busily.

"Your brother will be all right," he says at length, tightening his grip on Fíli's shoulders for a moment. "He's too stubborn to die on you now."

He's hoping Fíli will smile, or at least feel reassured, but Fíli does not even look up as he says—"That's what he did last time, isn't it?"

(Thorin realizes he doesn't have an answer for this, and so he stays silent.)

The slices across Fíli's face are indeed deep and impressive; one swipes across his brow and down toward his jaw. The others—they look like they were made by warg claws, and Thorin shudders at the thought that he so easily could have been killed by such a strike—have nearly flayed one cheek open fully, and narrowly miss his eyes as they go across his face in three diagonal, angry lines of bloody scarlet. He thinks Bifur is right in his assessment—though they're not life-threatening (and he thanks Mahal that the blade stopped before it reached his neck), they should get them cleaned and bandaged, if only to prevent infection and unnecessary blood loss.

Ori appears from nowhere, one arm hanging uselessly at his side but a bowl of fresh water and a cloth clutched in the other hand. Bilbo is close behind, holding a wad of gauze and tape, and both nod to Thorin before offering Dori the supplies, stepping away and glancing furtively at the tent before Ori asks, "How is he?"

Fíli does not respond at all as Dori begins cleaning his face, only blinking when the cloth gets too close to his eyes. "We have no more news," Glóin says shortly, unable to give platitudes that may not be true, and Ori slumps even as Bilbo sighs.

"He'll be all right, lad," Dori murmurs to Fíli, who says nothing in reply, a frown appearing on his features instead as the old dwarf carefully tapes gauze to his face. "This'll have to do until Óin can stitch you up—does anything else hurt?"

"No."

It's nearly inaudible, but it's better than nothing—and Dori nods before standing up, shifting to look at Thorin's knee instead. "Now what did _you_ do to yourself?"

"Warg used his leg as a chewtoy," Dwalin rumbles, his face livid. "Haven't had a chance to look at it properly yet."

Fíli's blank eyes drift away from the tent for a moment, focusing on Thorin's leg as Dori impatiently wrangles the ruined greaves and trousers away. The others hiss in sympathy as the damage is revealed, and Dori swears under his breath before turning to Ori—"Find a healer, tell them it's for the king—this is beyond my ability to help."

Thorin scowls even as the young dwarf scurries off, and Fíli's eyes follow Ori strangely as he disappears between the throngs of bloody, exhausted soldiers. It's the same look he gives Balin and Óin, when he thinks nobody else is watching, and Thorin wonders with growing trepidation whether there is more about that future that they never told him—

But suddenly Fíli is standing up like a shot, and Thorin, with his mauled leg and exhausted mind, is not able to catch him—Dwalin's arm shoots out and grabs him, preventing him from going anywhere, but he doesn't even try—he only opens his mouth, his eyes impossibly wide, and calls, "Legolas! _Legolas!"_

Thorin blinks at him before scanning the crowds. He's sure he's heard the name before—somewhere—but it is certainly not dwarven, and he has no idea who he could possibly—

He's astonished to see an _elf_ step out of the crowds, looking vaguely confused but mostly impatient as he looks down at Fíli with one eyebrow raised. "What is it, dwarf? You know my name, but I don't believe we have met."

"Please—my brother, he's badly injured—I think he's poisoned—" Here, Thorin shoots a sharp, wide-eyed look at Dori, who has the grace to look ashamed of himself for keeping this information from him—"but elven healers have better medicine than we do, right? Can you—"

"Why would I help a dwarf?" Legolas very nearly spits the word at Fíli's feet, and the young dwarf flinches but does not back down.

"Please—he's—he's—"

"He is my nephew and my heir," Thorin says loudly, levering himself up on Dori's shoulder even as several of his companions give squawks of protest. "You do not know Fíli, but you know me, do you not, Son of Thranduil?"

For who else could this creature be, with his pale hair and piercing eyes and regal stance? Even though he does not recall ever being formally introduced to him, he can tell that the elf—_Legolas_—recognizes him, from the way his other eyebrow shoots up to match the first. After several seconds of silence, Legolas eventually inclines his head slightly, turning away as he says, "I will see if there are any unoccupied healers. _If _there are, I will send them here."

"Thank you," Fíli says, his voice breathless and choked with relief, but Legolas does not turn before walking back into the crowds.

"_What were you thinking?_" Dwalin very nearly roars in Fíli's face as he collapses back to the ground. "Thranduil's son—"

"He was there, in that other time," Fíli cuts him off, his gaze again shifting to watch the tent that houses his brother. "I thought—"

"You remember that time, but he certainly does not," Dwalin continues on, his face so harsh it's almost a snarl.

"He was almost kind to us, after…" he trails off, glancing up with wide eyes as Ori reappears, an unfamiliar dwarrowdam in tow. She tuts over the state of Thorin's leg before unceremoniously beginning to prod at it, causing him to hiss through his teeth and turn his head to distract himself.

"After what, Fíli?"

But he only shakes his head sharply, tearing his gaze with difficulty from Ori, before glancing to Thorin and then at the ground. "He was very nearly compassionate with us, and certainly cared at least some for the hobbits and men. I thought maybe…"

"A lot of things can happen in eighty years, lad," Glóin says, patting him on the shoulder bracingly. "But he said he'd try and find Kíli a healer—you may be right about him yet."

Fíli's gaze, though, drifts back to the tent (Thorin can see that the activity has not lessened, and he cannot figure out if this is a good thing or not), and he says no more on the matter.

.

.

Kíli wakes with a sharp gasp and a stabbing pain in his head and in his shoulder.

Someone is above him instantly; hands are grasping his good arm, and a voice is talking to him though he can't quite make out the words. He blinks vaguely, attempting to focus on the face above him, and it's several seconds later that he finally sees Fíli—his eyes bloodshot, and an alarming amount of nasty stitches obscuring most of his face. There is activity all around them, but all Kíli can see is his brother sitting at his bedside—_he saved him,_ then—he was in time to stop the orc's killing blow, he was able to—

"_Don't you ever do that again,"_ Fíli chokes out, and his hands clench and unclench, as if he's stopping himself from hitting Kíli upside the head. "We—I thought you were _dead,_ brother—"

"Don' be stupid," he says, and his voice slurs more than he expects it to. He makes an attempt at clearing his throat before continuing, "Wasn't going to die. Couldn't let you get hurt."

"You—" But Fíli seems to have lost all capacity for speech, only bowing his head over Kíli's cot and drawing in deep, shaky breaths. Kíli looks at him in concern—he's _fine,_ after all. He doesn't really remember what happened past the sword slicing through a gap in his armor and the blinding pain that came with it, but he knocked his head, apparently, which would explain his loss of consciousness. But all in all, nothing hurts that badly—

But then he sees the elf hovering at the corner of the clearly dwarven tent, looking distinctly out of place and watching him closely; he sees Gandalf in another corner, looking intensely relieved as he smiles at him; he sees Thorin on a cot nearby, his entire right leg bandaged and splinted, though he sleeps peacefully (and Kíli rejoices at this, because all three of them are _alive_)—

But clearly there is something wrong, because even Fíli—his worrywart of a big brother—would not be so hysterical over a simple knock to the head. "How—how long has it been, since the battle?" he asks with some trepidation, and he realizes that maybe there is a reason that his voice is so hoarse, after all.

"Nearly two days, Master Kíli," Gandalf says after a moment, when Fíli does not seem ready to answer him. "You were struck with a poisoned blade, and knocked badly over the head—for a while, we weren't sure that you were going to wake. Were it not for Prince Legolas' intercession, you may not have. As it stands, however, you should make a full recovery, as should your uncle."

_Legolas._ He's sure Fíli had something to do with that, because memories of the stern elf they met in the future flutter to the front of his mind. Stern, but not wholly uncaring—and, as Thranduil's son, he supposes he must have no small amount of sway amongst his father's subjects.

He turns to the elven healer, still observing him closely from several feet away. "You have my thanks," he says, inclining his head as well as he is able without setting off either of his injuries too terribly. The creature (male, Kili thinks, but he's never really been able to tell) looks rather surprised at the admission but bows his head slightly in return; with a few muttered words from Gandalf, he soon exits the tent, not looking back as he disappears into the bright sunlight outside.

"Is everyone else all right?" Kili asks the top of Fíli's head, reaching with his good arm to stroke his hair gently. Fíli will be fine; he'll always be fine. Even something as terrifying as this (and he can't even imagine what his brother has gone through these past two days, broken images of a future they thought long gone churning through his mind, thinking with growing horror that he will have to figure out how to live the rest of his life without his brother) cannot bring him down for long. Fíli is strong; Fíli will not allow this to break him.

Fíli will be all right.

And sure enough, he is lifting his head, wincing slightly as his frown pulls at the stitches that line his face. "And how did you get _that?_" Kíli asks, rather put-off, poking gently at just outside the gauze and momentarily forgetting his earlier question. "I don't remember your face being _quite_ that ugly last I saw it."

Fíli barks out a choked laugh and seems to think better of punching him playfully. "Defending your sorry hide, of course. Too many damn orcs—one of them and its warg got too close, and I wasn't going to move—"

(_There were tears in his eyes, clouding his vision—_Kíli reads this in his brother's face easily, and feels a sharp jab of guilt for causing his brother such pain.)

(He'd do it again, though, because a distressed Fíli is infinitely better than a _dead_ one.)

"Your brother will have some impressive scarring to show for it," Gandalf says, "but he was never in any danger."

Kíli feels himself rolling his eyes at his brother, trying not to smile—"You'll have even more suitors than you already do—they all like the wild ones, you know, and with that great thing across your face—"

Fíli laughs, then, and the sound is a bit more relaxed than it was before. Kíli still feels jabs of residual pain in his immobilized shoulder, and his head is pounding like a second heart, but he knows it is worth it to hide such pain when his brother needs comfort more than anything else.

They're all right. They're all right.

They survived the battle.

_Thorin is King._

"To answer your question, Master Kíli, the rest of your Company is fine, more or less," Gandalf says, and Kíli is sure Óin would have a fit, should he see the way Gandalf is pulling out his pipe in a tent of healing. "A few broken bones and superficial wounds, but none so dangerous as your own. Everyone has been waiting for you to wake up, and I daresay they will be quite glad to see you have done so. The cleaning of the battlefield has already begun, and soon, Dáin's soldiers hope to begin moving the wounded into the mountain."

"So it's finally over," Kíli says, relief washing over him as he smiles tentatively at his brother, "this is all over—"

"Yes," Fíli says, but his face has suddenly grown tight with discomfort, "except for the matter of Bilbo's Ring."

.

.

Kíli is allowed out of bed relatively soon—sooner than Thorin, certainly, who is apparently lucky they didn't have to end up amputating his leg. He and Fíli take to wandering the camps, helping where they can (though Fíli isn't inclined to talking much, as his healing stitches make it painful, and Kíli can't do much physical labor with only one healthy arm) and just basking in the knowledge that the battle is over, and that they are still alive.

They pass Bard and his elder children, who are helping the healers busily; Bain and Sigrid only give them quick nods before running off into another tent, but Bard stares at them for a moment before his face breaks into a smile, and Kíli can see that he's genuinely pleased to see them still alive. Before he's able to say anything, though, Bain yells for his assistance, and he is gone, hurrying away toward his son. Thranduil, on the other hand, does not appear to even consider speaking, when they happen to run into him. But he nods slightly, his perpetual frown perhaps lessening a bit, as he hurries by with his captain.

This—_all_ of this—is finally over, and the armies are working together with hardly a trace of enmity, and Thorin—_they_—are finally home again.

A letter arrived from Ered Luin, written in their mother's hand, not long after the battle—she is on her way with the first caravan of dwarves, and if all goes well (and it _should,_ because there are scarcely any goblins left in the Misty Mountains, and Thorin has wrangled a treaty from Thranduil of safe passage through Mirkwood) they should be here in a couple of months.

The wounds on Fíli's face are healing well enough, but Kíli is equal parts anticipatory and terrified of their mother's reaction when she sees them. Gimli—and now it is odd to think of him as young again, though they spent less than a week in the future—will surely be jealous of their escapades, and everything will be as it should.

Gandalf has whisked himself away to Rivendell on important business but promises to be back—and he gave Bilbo a hard look before he left, making him swear not to use the Ring and to keep it out of the way of the dwarves. The hobbit's face had darkened for a moment, but then he clearly came back to himself, agreeing easily to the wizard's terms.

Kíli would be worried for his uncle's mind, now that Bilbo and the Ring are staying in the mountain, but Thorin has so little free time nowadays that he doubts he would have the _opportunity_ to fall under its spell. He has spent weeks grumbling about being immobile, but he hasn't been idle—he, Bofur, and Bifur have been conversing about the salvageable architecture in the mountain, dangerous areas where necessary support no longer exists and mines that are no longer safe. And when physical work on _that_ was finally started, there was Thranduil, with the trade agreements—and Dwalin, with the organization of the official guard—and Dáin, with the number of dwarves planning to move to Erebor from his own kingdom—

Kíli finds it all overwhelming, and he's not even the one being forced into such discussions.

Time passes quickly—quicker than Kíli could have ever expected it to. He supposes, though, that he shouldn't be surprised; after all, he and Fíli and the rest of the Company have been working every waking moment, making the mountain habitable enough for when others finally arrive. Carrying away rubble to clear hallways and open areas—salvaging what can be saved and sending to Thranduil or Dáin for all else—stocking food in great quantities and organizing the treasury if only to send to Bard what rightfully belongs to Dale—

Kili finds himself dreading that work, because the pull he feels from deep in his bones grows stronger the longer he stays in the treasury. The gold—it is beautiful and priceless and _important,_ surely, but he remembers the stories he's heard of Thror and remembers the shadows on Gimli's and Gandalf's faces when they spoke of Thorin's final hours in that other, accursed time—he knows of the gold sickness, and he knows he will never allow himself to succumb to it. He only reluctantly allows himself into the great treasuries of Thror, always surrounded, _distracted,_ by others, and leaves before long, because maybe it's Smaug's lingering magic (though the corpse has long since been disposed of by Gandalf) or maybe it's the tainted blood running through his veins but he _can't take that chance_—

Thorin avoids this work as well, trusts Gloin and Balin and all the others to handle the mountain's wealth, only entering the treasury when absolutely necessary. Fili likely feels it too—after all, he has more weight on his shoulders than even Kili, for as crown prince of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth, he must always have a sense of the gold—but between the three of them, there is an unspoken agreement. That the gold is important, but not overwhelming. That the Arkenstone—found early on, in the depths of the treasury, but not restored to its original place in the throne room—is only a ceremonial stone. That kith and kin are more important than wealth will ever be.

They will not falter. They will not succumb. They will not become the ancestors who brought their line to ruin in the first place.

But other work is just as taxing as that of the treasury, because there are countless bodies—no more than skeletons, now, nearly two hundred years later—still scattered through the mountain. The dwarves unfortunate enough to be too deep in the mines to hear the warning calls, those too far from the front gates to get out in time before Smaug collapsed them… Kíli is sick the first time they come upon some—two small dwarves who clearly had nowhere left to run, huddled around each other in the corner of their room, together until the very end.

(Maybe they remind him too much of himself and Fíli, and he does not even want to _try_ and imagine starving to death with only his big brother and the echoes of a mighty kingdom for company. Maybe these bodies remind him too much of those they found in Moria—of which he still has vivid, terrifying nightmares, that more often than not wake his brother as well.)

(Ori's gaping jaw, his hands clutching his precious journal even in death—)

It's too much too much _too damn much,_ and Fíli ends up leading him out of the room carefully, finding him some water and sitting with him the rest of the afternoon, his face just as pale as Kíli's.

(Kíli knows he's being unreasonable and weak, that he is an heir of the elder line of Durin and he's _stronger_ than this but he can't—he _can't_—)

.

.

The weeks pass much the same as each other, blending together until Kíli isn't quite sure how long they've been here at all. Dáin has left with some of his army, even as many dwarves from the Iron Hills have arrived to help them with the arduous restorations. Thorin is finally able to put weight on his leg again (albeit slowly and with obvious discomfort, stubbornly refusing to use a cane), and the world seems to be finally righting itself again.

And then a sentinel comes running into the throne room one morning, where several of them are laying out plans for the rebuilding of the forges, and says a caravan of dwarves has appeared on the horizon.

Kíli and Fíli are up like a shot, hurrying past the guard with muttered thanks as Thorin follows behind them, quickly as he is able. And sure enough—when they arrive at the makeshift front gates, which open slowly at Thorin's bidding, there is a large mass of dwarves, wagons, ponies—still a good distance away, but closing in fast.

They likely see the gates opening, because the group quickens their pace, covering the ground in less than half an hour (it's cleared of blood and gore and bodies, now, but still Kíli sees flashes of warfare behind his eyelids every time he blinks), and then—

_Mahal be praised_, their mother is at the head, riding with a straight back and keen eyes as she scans the crowd that has formed at the gates. She is just as lovely—perhaps even more so—than last he saw her, her resemblance to Thorin startling as she swings down from her pony. She is one of many that enters the hall quickly to reunite with family, and she strides quickly toward her brother.

A sharp _slap_ echoes through the entrance hall, and Thorin very nearly loses his precarious balance as his eyes widen and his hand goes up to rub his reddening cheek. "Dís, what in—"

But then she is pulling him into an embrace, her arms reaching up to wrap around Thorin, and her shoulders are shaking suspiciously as she grips him tightly. Thorin returns the gesture gingerly—as always, entirely unsure of how to offer comfort even to his closest family—and Kíli laughs, walking up with Fíli.

"Hey, Ma," he says quietly, entirely ignoring the other reunions going on around him, eyes only for the dwarrowdam he was half-sure he would never see again. "It's good to see you."

She squeezes Thorin tight for a moment longer before turning to Kíli and Fíli, and there are suspicious tears in her eyes as she immediately envelopes Kíli, who is nearer, into a suffocating embrace. Kíli returns it immediately, ignoring the aches in his squashed shoulder and doing his best to soothe her—promises her that they are all right, that they did not die on the journey…no matter what her worries and fears and nightmares told her, and no matter what happened in another time.

"My little warrior, a dragon slayer," Dis mumbles into his neck, and Kíli feels his face redden as Fíli snickers quietly beside him. But honestly, he doesn't have the heart to care, nor to reprimand her for treating him like a child—after all, it has been many, many months since they last saw each other, and right now, he does feel like a dwarfling seeking comfort in his mother's arms. "I'm so glad you're alive, all of you…"

Kíli knows they should tell her—_must_ tell her, in all honesty, because she has a knack for finding things out anyway, and hearing of it from anyone but them would simply be cruel. But not now—not with so many others around, and not so soon after their reunion—and so he only hugs her tighter and murmurs a "me too."

Eventually she pulls away, drinking in the sight of Kíli's face for a moment with a smile before turning to Fíli. Kíli sees the trepidation on his brother's face, feels it building in his own heart as their mother only stares at Fíli for several long moments…

But then she pulls him into a hug as well (if perhaps even tighter than the other two), her breaths shaky and measured as she assures herself that, yes, her eldest is indeed alive. "Did you kill the one who did it?" she asks, only after pulling away several moments later, her gaze locked with Fíli's eyes rather than the scars.

Fíli's face relaxes, and his mouth twitches up into a smirk as he says, "Cut its damned head off."

Their mother laughs, then, and it is more relaxed than before. "You'll have to tell me what happened," she accuses, turning to encompass both her sons in her gaze. "Your uncle's explanations in his letter were lamentably lacking, but I imagine that if you had somehow managed to make yourself more handsome before he sent it, Fíli, he would have mentioned it to me."

Fíli laughs, heartily, even as Thorin mumbles something about_ I'm right here, thank you very much _with a scowl on his face. Kíli laughs then, too, and moves to pull his mother into another hug as he sees Bilbo step up beside Thorin, looking rather lost among the throngs of new dwarves. "Who's this, then?" the hobbit asks, peering up at the unfamiliar dwarrowdam and clearly catching the resemblance to Thorin, the thick dark hair and the strong nose and the impressive height, especially for a female.

"Our mother," Fíli says, smiling broadly at Bilbo as the hobbit's eyes widen. "The only person in the world who can make Thorin shut up and listen when she needs to."

Thorin's pout (and Kíli would be clobbered over the head for considering it as such) only deepens, but Bilbo splutters for a moment before attempting a step back, clearly thinking he is intruding on a private moment. But their mother will have none of it—she disentangles herself from Kíli's arms and turns to look at Bilbo with an assessing gaze, which he tries not to twitch under but bravely meets with his own.

"It is a pleasure to meet the halfling who saved my brother's life," she says at length, bowing to an astonished Bilbo; his mouth is half-open, his mind clearly attempting to come up with an appropriate response, but she is not finished—"If it weren't for you, according to Thorin, he never would have made it through the Misty Mountains."

"Well, I—I—simply did what needed to be done!" he splutters, his face turning an impressive shade of red as Dís straightens, her face much kinder. "Had anyone else been in my position, they would have done the same—and done a better job of it, too, I'm sure!"

"The fact remains that you are the reason Thorin is yet the king, and we have much to thank you for," she says, her lips turning up into an honest smile as she steps toward him, offering her hand to shake. "If my brother hasn't already, I would be honored to name you dwarf-friend—no matter where you travel, dwarves will know and honor the great deeds you have done for our line."

"Now hold on one moment—" Bilbo's eyes have grown impossibly wider as Dís smiles, and Kíli very nearly laughs outright at the look on the poor hobbit's face. "I'm just a simple hobbit, not—"

"A simple hobbit who saved us all from three mountain trolls, faced down Azog the Defiler, and riddled with a dragon," Thorin says imperiously, staring Bilbo down and causing Dís' brows to shoot up in surprise. (Clearly, Thorin left nearly _everything_ from his letter.) "That is more than any dwarf warrior could say he has done, Master Baggins. Do not sell yourself short."

His face does not lose any of its color, and his eyes are wide as he stares up at Thorin and then Dís, but he eventually does shake the proffered hand, taking a quick step back as soon as Dís lets go. "Everyone else is all right?" she directs at all four of them, apparently having mercy on Bilbo as she instead casts her gaze around the crowd. Glóin is reuniting loudly with his wife and son, and Bombur with his family, but other than that, it is not clear who else from the Company is in the entrance hall.

"More or less," Fíli says, his voice light, and shoots a smirk at Kíli that tells him he's about to be in trouble. "There was a bit of a fuss with some orcs after Kíli killed Smaug, but we pulled through well enough. Kili got stabbed with a poisoned blade—"

"Kíli _what_—"

"—because he thought it'd be a good idea to jump between an orc and my back. The elves and Gandalf helped heal him, so he's fine now, but gave us a right scare for a few days."

Fíli's face is suddenly tight with the memory despite the way he's clearly trying to make light of it, and Dís turns accusingly to Kíli, who feels himself shrinking slightly under her gaze. "I couldn't let him get hurt!" he says defensively, his eyes wide as his mother bears down on him. "And it was just my shoulder, not even that terrible, right—?"

The grim faces of the other three betray that lie (and Kíli, truly, has never felt the need to wheedle the whole truth out of them), but it seems to be enough for his mother. Nevertheless, she pulls him into another crushing hug, only loosening her grip a bit when he lets out a squeak of discomfort. "You're such an idiot," she mutters before pulling away, looking him up and down as if making sure he has left out no other injuries. "If I ever hear that you did something so foolhardy again…"

Kíli laughs nervously (because he has done a great number of foolish things in the past several months, most of which will likely get him slapped, if not killed) before deciding to redirect her attention again. "Anyway, Thorin killed Azog as well, but nearly got his leg chewed off in the process, so I think he may want to sit down somewhere soon…"

His mother's squawk of indignation as she whirls on Thorin is frankly hilarious, and Thorin sends Kíli a look of something quite like betrayal as she herds him off to one side of the hall, poking him emphatically in the chest and yelling at him the whole way.

Fíli and Kíli, dragging Bilbo along behind them, laugh at the scene and follow.

.

.

Kíli supposes it only makes sense that Gimli would seek them out, but it's still a bit of a shock to see his cousin—his beard barely as long as Fíli's, rather than down to his belt—approach them only minutes later, after Dís has settled an irate Thorin on a stone bench at the edges of the hall.

Fíli is the first to spot Gimli, and he blinks at him for a moment, clearly forcing himself to reconcile the two images, just as Kíli is doing. But their friend doesn't allow them much time to adjust; he pulls Kíli into a crushing hug, pounding him on the back until he chokes before he turns to Fíli.

"What'd you do to that ugly mug, then?" he asks as greeting, though Kíli can see his eyes glistening, strangely bright, in the sunlight streaming in through the gates. "First you leave me out of all the fun, and then you go and get yourself battle scars to boot! Leave some of the ladies for me and Kíli, aye?"

Fíli snorts, pulling Gimli into a hug even as the tears finally fall down their cousin's cheeks. "Ach, my Da says you're lucky to be alive, all three of you," he says, and scrubs furiously at his face as he lets go of Fíli. "It's good you didn't die, or else I would've had to bring you back just to kill you myself. What would I have done without you—suffocate in the library with Ori?"

Their mother chokes a laugh, but Kíli and his brother can only muster strained smiles between them, and Kíli wonders suddenly, horrified, how badly their mother and Gimli must have taken the news, in that other time. (And then he wonders whether that had anything to do with the fact that he joined such a suicidal quest.) "We are all very much alive," Thorin says, and he offers the younger dwarf a small smile as he attempts to stand again. (Dís shoves him back down, rather forcefully, and he acquiesces with only a grunt of irritation and a murderous glare. Kíli nearly laughs at the incredulous look on Bilbo's face.) "Your father fought honorably the entire way—you should be proud of him."

"He's not the one who killed the dragon, though, is he?" Gimli snorts, turning sharply to poke Kíli in the chest. "It was _this_ beardless brat! I'm almost offended—you _still_ look younger than me! Has your beard grown at all, since you left?"

Kíli would be offended if it were anyone else saying such things—but as it stands, he only laughs heartily, punching Gimli on the shoulder. Their mother is giving both him and Fíli strange looks, clearly concerned by the pain they weren't able to mask from Gimli's earlier comment. They can't tell her now, though—not here, in front of so many others, and not so soon after the joy of their reunion. Thorin seems to agree, nodding shortly to both of them, and Bilbo's lips tighten as he, too, understands.

Later, they will have to tell their mother and their cousin exactly what happened. Later, they will have to tell them that their problems are far from over—that even though they managed to save their own lives, so many more still hang in the balance.

But that is for later, because Gimli is slapping Kíli on the back again, and their mother's face is again full of nothing but shining pride and overwhelming relief, and all of them are soon pulled into a vivid (rather exaggerated, Kíli must admit) description of their escapades in the Trollshaws. Fíli is embellishing Bilbo's role in the story mightily—even at the expense of his and Kíli's pride—and Kíli can't help but grin at the way the hobbit's face is growing gradually redder and redder.

By the end, Gimli is laughing heartily, and he claps Bilbo on the shoulder in such a way that Kíli can see his knees nearly buckle. "I suppose you're an all right sort, for a halfling," Gimli says, his cheerful tone belying the harshness of the words. Bilbo splutters helplessly, looking to Kíli and his brother for help, but they only grin at him—after all, if Bilbo is to be here for the next several weeks—or months—he'll have to grow acquainted with the dwarves he'll be seeing on a regular basis.

Though, Kíli supposes as Bilbo reaches up to rub his shoulder with a grimace, he might have to have a word with his cousin about the fragility of hobbits, as well.


	10. X

_For anyone interested, I'm going to start writing a series of spin-off oneshots that will fill in a couple of PoV gaps and continuations of things (ie, the rest of them finding out about Moria, because I meant for that to fit in here somehow but it just didn't work), as well as explore different storylines I almost went with, but eventually decided against. I'm pretty excited about them; if you want to read them, look out for Caesura within the next few weeks! _

_(And if there's anything you really want to see in it, let me know, and I'll see if I can come up with ideas for it!)_

_Thanks so much for sticking around, guys; I hope you like the last chapter :D_

* * *

**X.**

It's several days later that the three of them finally get their mother and Gimli to themselves. It's clear that their mother has grown increasingly concerned for them—because more often than not, Kíli wakes up screaming for the nightmares that often make Fíli lose sleep as well. Their rooms are close, in the royal wing—too close—and Kíli knows she hears them every time, though she does not always mention it, and knows better than to try and offer them comfort in the middle of the night.

Even Gimli has noticed the way they have lost some of their cheeriness, their luster, and the way seemingly innocuous comments make them clam up. Kíli knows it's ridiculous, but he can't help it—the last time he saw Gimli, he also saw Ori's corpse and Balin's tomb and all the others who perished in the mines, and the grim set of Gimli's face haunts him (it wasn't him, but it _was_, and Kíli's still unsteady at the difference), the way he bit back tears as he all but forced the draughts down their throats. Determined to save them when he was not able to in the past, even if it meant his own near-certain death—

They're huddled around the fire in Thorin's spacious rooms, and Bilbo has joined them too, sitting a little ways away and clearly uncomfortable with the situation, his fingers closing around nothing at his sides and his eyes fixed with eerie emptiness on the fireplace.

"There's something wrong with you. All three of you," their mother breaks the heavy silence, and hesitates a moment before putting an arm around Kíli's shoulders. (He barely restrains himself from flinching at the contact.) "You haven't told us everything, have you? Even though the battle was horrible, you aren't…"

She trails off into silence, looking between all three of them, waiting for someone to take the initiative. Thorin's fists are clenched, white-knuckled, in his lap, and Fíli's face is twisted in a pained frown, the scars illuminated eerily in the dim firelight.

Kíli knows this must fall to him—after all, this was his fault to begin with. He was the one who stole the potion, forced his brother to drink it with him…

(Saved all their lives, but honestly, this doesn't feel like any sort of victory, now, watching the worried faces of his mother and cousin, waiting for an explanation nobody wants to give them.)

"We…" he starts, but finds himself unable to continue, choking on his words and biting back what threatens to be a sob even as Fíli shifts beside him, as his mother's arm tightens around his shoulders. "We…"

He does his best, but the words will not come, and Gimli's worried frown deepens, on Fíli's other side, as the seconds grow longer. Eventually, Thorin takes a deep breath, forces his fists to relax, and says, nearly inaudibly—

"Truly, none of us should be alive."

The story comes out in fits and bursts, each of them contributing as they are able, and Kíli feels his mother's grip become tight enough to hurt as the tale comes out. Their travel through time, the purpose of that quest—and Thorin tells of the madness that overtook his mind with a downturned face and a near-inaudible voice, shame and quiet horror evident in every twitching muscle of his broad frame.

But all of that comes out easily—easily, at least, in comparison to the inevitable explanation of Thorin's first statement. Gimli's fists are white-knuckled and shaking as Fíli eventually tells them of what happened in the battle, and their mother—strong, unshakeable Lady Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór—lets the tears fall unashamedly down her cheeks, barely holding in her sobs as Fíli's voice falls to nothing more than a mutter.

"It was the only thing we could have done," he finishes at last, glancing up from his knees to look at their mother, as if begging for understanding and forgiveness. "He is our uncle and our King—we could not leave him to die. It was only luck that it did not come to that, in this time—but if it did, I'm sorry, Mother, but we would have done it again, without hesitation. We tried so hard to change it, but if we could not, it would have been for nothing, and—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," she finally chokes out, and whatever reaction Kíli expected from her, this is not it—because within seconds, he is crushed into an embrace beside his brother, their mother's sobs echoing in his ears as she buries her head between theirs. It's so wrong, to think of his mother crying—he hasn't seen it happen since his father died, and that is long in the past, buried in hazy memories of his early childhood, filled with golden hair and bright smiles from a face he can no longer recall. He has not seen his mother cry in decades, and the concept is so foreign to him that he is terrified by it—and his own tears finally spill over, dampening his mother's hair as everyone else in the room falls into silence.

Soon, though, they must collect themselves—and their mother eventually pulls away, looking at them each in turn with such pride and affection in her watery eyes that Kíli nearly breaks down again. "My brave boys," she finally says, no louder than a whisper—and she gently tucks a braid behind Fíli's ear, tightens her grip on Kíli's shoulder. "I would not expect anything less of you—but I am so very glad you are here with me still."

"I am sorry, Dís," Thorin's voice breaks through Kíli's haze unexpectedly, and the tone is so strained that all three of them turn. Thorin meets his sister's gaze with obvious effort—his eyes are strangely bright in the firelight, and he is bunching the edges of his tunic in trembling fists as he continues, "It was my fault, in that other time—and if it had happened again, you would have had no one to blame but me."

"You are an idiot, brother," she agrees, her voice shaky as she attempts a laugh, "but we need not worry anymore about this, because the battle is over, and all of you are alive. I cannot ask for anything more, and neither should you."

Thorin's face darkens in denial, but he seems to recognize when an argument will be futile—at least, in front of so many others. So he only swallows heavily and looks away, his sharp profile illuminated by the fire and highlighting the crushing set of his jaw. "There is still the matter of the Ring," Gimli says after a moment, and Kíli looks over to see his hands clenched into fists as well, his face pale beneath his sparse beard. "You said it has to be destroyed in Mordor, but how would such a quest ever succeed? Even with so many of the orcs killed—"

"Gandalf is going to help us," Kíli answers, nodding slightly toward a suddenly tense Bilbo. "Master Baggins will have to carry it—no dwarf, man, or elf can be trusted to stay strong against it. But he cannot be expected to go alone."

"_No_," Bilbo says immediately, even as Thorin and their mother both open their mouths, likely to say the same thing. "You and your brother will stay here, in Erebor—I cannot ask this of you, when you have cheated fate so many times already. The captain of Thranduil's guard said she would journey with us—and Gandalf will ask Lórien and Rivendell for support as well. You dwarves have done enough, and have plenty left to accomplish in your mountain."

"I will not send you out with only _elves _for protection_,_" Thorin nearly spits the word as a curse, and Bilbo's frown turns toward him instead. "Any of the Company would be more than willing to travel with you—in fact, I will be surprised if they do not demand it outright. Do not think—"

"This, I think, is a discussion for a later date," Dís cuts them both off, her voice sharp and her face brooking no room for argument. "Gandalf has not returned, and until he does we can do nothing. At the least, we can treasure this peace while it lasts, yes?"

Kíli finds himself nodding (for, truly, his mother is the wisest of them all, and Kíli wonders briefly how he could have turned out so bull-headed in comparison), even as Thorin and Gimli's faces darken, and Kíli can see his cousin's mind turning over the possibilities. Even though he is nearly a century younger than he was then—he must be thinking—he has more of a right than any of them to accompany Bilbo on this quest, for he was chosen for the Fellowship in that time.

It is an impossible hope, of course—Kíli and his family beside, Glóin and Lady Mizim would certainly never allow it—but like his mother said, that is an argument for another time. The hour is late, and all of them are tired, emotionally drained from the trying conversation they have endured. So Kíli leans in closer to his mother, feels her arm wrap around his shoulders once again—feels the comforting warmth of his brother on his other side—and simply treasures these few moments of calm silence…

Because he knows, all too soon, that they will be shattered…possibly for good.

.

.

Thorin's official coronation is a grand—if rather unnecessary—affair, nearly a year after the battle.

He has been recognized as King of Durin's Folk—the direct heir of Durin the Deathless—for a century now, since his father disappeared into the wildlands. He has done more for his people than any other king in living memory, leading them as best he could through poverty and starvation and homelessness until, eventually, he earned them some semblance of peace in Ered Luin.

And then, even after that (which is honorable in and of itself), he reclaimed Erebor from the maw of the greatest dragon of the North, and every member of his Company lived to tell the tale.

More caravans have arrived in the interim, dwarves from the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills and all corners of Middle Earth hoping to make a better life for themselves in the famed Lonely Mountain. Thorin turns away no one (though Balin and Dori are driving themselves mad, trying to plan, to make sure that every family will have adequate apartments and a place to work, and Dwalin is going apoplectic, ensuring that none of those who pass into the kingdom mean any harm), and so the mountain's population swells quickly in size.

Thorin's coronation is unnecessary but celebrated nonetheless. A new crown has been forged by the best smiths in the mountain—Thrór's, while salvaged from his desecrated body outside of Moria and kept safe for these long decades, holds connotations that Kíli knows Thorin would rather forget. So when empty caskets for Thrór and Thráin and Frerin are hewn in the catacombs, the elder's crown rests upon the stone—and the father's lesser coronet and hammer—and the younger's bow and sword that Dís and Thorin have kept safe all these years, as well as the armor that Kíli places upon the empty, lifeless stone. It is mangled now beyond use, and the smiths tell him it would be easier simply to forge him a new set entirely—and so he places the breastplate and the helm and the greaves and gauntlets upon the memory of his uncle, and murmurs a near-silent _thank you_ to the dwarf he never knew.

The coronation is glorious and triumphant, the largest cleared (scorched, but Kíli doesn't think anyone minds) hall used for the celebration and still, it is full to bursting. Bard and some others from Dale are there, standing tall and proud near the back of the room without complaint, even his youngest daughter's head rising higher than many of the dwarves'.

And, surprisingly enough, Thranduil is there as well, with his son and the red-haired captain of his guard and some others—and when the time comes for him to pay his respects to Thorin, he inclines his head with scarcely a trace of malice, congratulating him on a home hard-won, and offers his hopes of a strong and fruitful rule.

Kíli can see the surprise on his uncle's face—indeed, feels it growing in his own heart, because from the little he knows of the Elvenking, he would never subjugate himself as such—before Thorin collects himself, his features relaxing a small amount as he inclines his head in return.

Fíli is clearly surprised, from his place of honor at Thorin's right hand—and their mother looks beyond pleased, beaming at her brother with twinkling eyes and a wide smile. This, surely, is part of Thorin's efforts to distance himself from the memory of his grandfather's later years—when he stood tall and arrogant upon his throne, ignoring advisors and kings and even _wizards_ in his greed, when Thranduil—and, later, Gandalf—attempted to make him see reason.

It had not worked, but Kíli can see the stubbornness in his uncle's eyes, the determination to not let himself fall to that same madness—and he believes, now, that Thorin will succeed.

The men and elves excuse themselves before the true festivities begin, but the dwarves all but pile into a hall of feasting, where ale flows freely and food is plentiful and the members of Thorin's Company are given places of honor at the head table, no matter the fact that Bifur and his cousins are not of Durin's line, no matter the fact that Bilbo is not even a dwarf.

Thorin looks odd, adorned as he is in a heavy golden crown, lined with diamonds and sapphires—and Fíli, too, is stranger than Kíli has ever seen him, for the silver and ruby crown he wears is unlike anything Kíli has ever seen. But Thorin is the same uncle he has known all his life (brooding and reserved, even amidst the dwarves toasting his life and happiness and prosperity), and Fíli is unchanged from the brother he knows better than himself, and so Kíli forces himself to forget such oddities—for they are a part of his life, now, no matter his thoughts on the matter—and simply allows himself to indulge in the happiness finally allowed to his family.

The celebrations last well into the night and even to the morning—though Kíli is feeling equal parts nauseous and exhausted from the amount of ale he's consumed, he is better off than Bilbo (who is lost to the world, snoring lightly atop a plate of walnuts) and Ori (who faceplanted, unfortunately, in a bowl of mashed potatoes, and had to be fished out by a laughing Nori and an indignant Dori). He has never attended such a feast before, but he's heard tales enough from his elders, how the merriment can last for days on end, and he's just starting to wonder how on earth that is even_ possible_ when he feels the ghost of a movement behind him, much taller than any dwarf.

He turns swiftly to see Gandalf—for who else could it be, towering at nearly six feet in height and cloaked, as always, in fraying grey robes?—move swiftly past his and Fíli's seats to stand beside Thorin's decorated chair. His uncle has been allowing his attention to wander, Kíli can tell—but as soon as Gandalf steps up to him, he is sitting straight and alert, his gaze flickering down the table to Bilbo before refocusing on the wizard.

"Congratulations are in order, I believe," Gandalf comments lightly, glancing up to the shining crown on Thorin's head with a raised brow. "You are not wearing your grandfather's?"

"I am not Thrór, nor do I wish to be," Thorin says shortly, and it's clear that he has little interest in such a conversation. "What have you found out? What must we do to end this?"

The wizard's other brow rises swiftly, and he glances down the table (all of the Company who are still conscious and at least slightly sober are watching them, now, leaning in closer to hear the conversation) before saying in an undertone, "We must leave as soon as possible."

.

.

In the end, it is a smaller group than any would have liked who accompany Bilbo and Gandalf away to the south.

The hobbits and men in the last Fellowship, Kíli knows, have not been born yet—and Gimli, too, is denied the right to go. His face is nearly as red as his hair at the decision—Kíli knows he is still sore at the fact that he was not allowed to accompany them to Erebor, and now that he is nearly sixty-four, he's of the staunch belief that he _can do whatever he damn well pleases_. But Bilbo—who has taken quite the shine to the young dwarf, oddly enough—reminds him in an undertone one quiet afternoon that this quest is likely a suicidal one, that those who venture away from the Mountain will probably never return. Gimli, he says with a rueful smile, has too many things left to do, and who will keep Fíli and Kíli in check if he leaves, after all?

Gimli huffs and stomps around some more, but seems to eventually acquiesce—not in the least because Glóin threatens to lock him up in irons if he doesn't _shut up already_.

Bifur and Bofur refuse point-blank to allow Bilbo to leave without them, and Dwalin, similarly, has made up his mind to protect the hobbit. Their relatives are unhappy with the decision, but Balin is needed in the mountain, and Bombur cannot leave his family behind again, and so eventually, they have to agree to let them go.

(That doesn't mean everyone else—Kíli and his brother chief among them—is happy with the decision to leave their friend so unprotected…because if they had it their way, an entire army would be at his back, protecting him from every last threat right up until the gates of Mount Doom.)

But it's impossible—of course it is—so the days pass swiftly, and Dwalin and Bifur and Bofur prepare to leave. Thranduil, too, has held true to his promise; a few days before they are to leave, the red-haired she-elf with the twin daggers and the sharp eyes arrives at the gates of Erebor, accompanied by a small guard and—Kíli is honestly surprised—the king's son.

The guards are dismissed soon enough, and Legolas introduces his companion as _Tauriel,_ the captain of the guard who all but manhandled her way into accompanying them on the quest. He—he allows with a rather rueful smile—was nudged along by his father, who says it is his responsibility to see this deed done. At the very least, someone needs to keep Tauriel in line.

(Kíli is glad Thranduil asked him and Fíli for details of that future, even if it was clearly to protect his own kingdom—because something had shifted in his gaze, when they told him that his son had left Mirkwood to journey so far away. The woodland king—if not wholly realizing or accepting why—has slowly come to understand that sitting within his own borders is not going to be enough for him or his people or anyone else in Middle Earth, not if such horrors are growing in the South. And so he has agreed to this much—sending his son on the quest he has always been destined to join…sending his son away from the safety of the kingdom, perhaps, to save the world.)

The early spring day when the seven of them are to leave dawns far too soon for Kíli's—or anyone's—liking, and the good-byes are long and painful at the gates. Thorin embraces each of his companions in turn, pulling Bilbo into a crushing hug before pressing his forehead to Dwalin's with such intensity that Kíli is sure it must be painful…and then he turns to Gandalf.

"You bring them back, Wizard," he rumbles, and his voice is that of the King Under the Mountain, that of Thorin Oakenshield, the great warrior and strong monarch of the mightiest kingdom in Middle Earth. "You bring them back, or Mahal help me, I will—"

"I will do everything in my power," the wizard says as Thorin's voice chokes off, and there is nothing of the customary twinkle in his eyes as Gandalf inclines his head solemnly, a promise they all know he may not be able to keep. "I do not intend to allow anyone else to perish for this venture."

Thorin's jaw tightens, but he only nods shortly, holding Dwalin's gaze for another long moment before they are off, ponies and horses carrying their riders swiftly down the mountainside, toward the South, toward whatever horrors await them there.

Kíli's hand has found Fíli's sleeve, without either of them realizing it—he knows this is what must be done, knows that if it is not, they will all likely die by Sauron's hand in just a few short decades. But he is not fond of the idea of sending his friends to their deaths, and it is clear that none of the others are, either—because many of them stand watch even after the group disappears from sight, gazing endlessly down the thin horizon, hoping with everything they can possibly give that every one of them will return safely.

Fíli eventually turns away, pulling Kíli gently from the gates even as he attempts another look over his shoulder, hoping irrationally to catch another glimpse of his friends. But they are gone—Gandalf's staff, and Bofur's hat, and Dwalin's axes and Bifur's spear and Bilbo's curly hair—they are long gone, perhaps permanently, and he feels strangely numb as Fíli leads him slowly toward their family's quarters.

It will be months before they return—if, of course, they return at all. It will be months, and yet Kíli already feels hollow and terrified, minutes after seeing them leave.

(How is he expected to handle this, when it was _his_ word that sent his friends out into the wildlands alone?)

It will be months, and they will have to wait—but there is no alternative, no taking it back now, because they cannot undo what they saw in that future; they can only try to rectify it.

(No matter how much damage it may cause in the interim.)

.

.

.

.

And it's several months later that they _do_ return, after no messages and no news and ever-dwindling hope; the call comes up from the gates, that a group of seven is approaching the mountain—and a great roar arises from the kingdom as Kíli and the others rush toward the entrance.

And—_Mahal above_—they are alive _(they are alive),_ and Kíli's rashness and stupidity have not cost any more lives, and if they are alive then surely everything must be all right again. Perhaps Bilbo's eyes and frame are haunted, dark-ringed and tired as Thorin pulls him from his pony into a hug with a sob; perhaps Dwalin has gained some new scars to add to his collection, which Balin fusses over with tears in his eyes and a desperate smile on his face; perhaps Bofur and Bifur look a bit older than they should, even as they are nearly mobbed by their nephews and nieces, with Bombur trailing behind with trembling hands and a watery smile.

Perhaps Gandalf looks just a bit more tired than he should, as he dismounts from his pony and steps toward Thorin, leaning heavily on his staff. Even the elves—timeless and inexhaustible as they are—look drained, and gratefully relinquish their horses to the dwarves. They're different ones than what they rode out on, Kíli notices; he remembers the horse-men in the south, remembers the desperate messengers from Rohan three months ago, calling for aid that Thorin and Dáin and Bard quickly sent (though the Company was strictly forbidden from joining them), and feels sick at the thought that more blood was shed for the sake of this quest, that more lives were lost to Sauron's might.

(But he remembers, a month ago, now, the moment the world seemed to _shift—_it had been a day like any other, until it _hadn't_ been. He had hoped, but had not dared to voice it aloud, that perhaps it meant that it was done, that Bilbo and the others had succeeded, but he had been so _so_ scared that maybe if he allowed himself to believe it, they would never return at all—)

But it is over now, if the wizard's murmured explanations are to be believed; though Kíli can scarcely hear him through the ringing in his ears, and he eagerly takes his turn to embrace his companions even as Thorin refuses to relinquish his grip on Bilbo's shoulders, _everything is finally over._

Maybe, now, with that future gone for good, with his family alive and the Dark Lord dead and everyone whole and hale within the mountain, he can finally let go of the nightmares, let go of the fear and uncertainty that have plagued him since that morning they arrived back, on the edges of Mirkwood. Everything is finally over, and the world has righted itself again, and as the group is quickly shuffled into the mountain, Kíli allows himself to believe that everything is all right.

(And if this is the happiest he will ever be again—as Bilbo's face breaks into a tired smile, as Fíli pulls Bofur into a hug, as Thorin finally releases the hobbit to crush Dwalin between his shaking arms—he thinks he will never ask for anything ever again.)


End file.
